UC-NRLF 


B    3    SMb    51D 


THE 


HILLYARS  AND  TIE  BURTONS: 


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A   STOEY    OF   TWO'^  PAMlEtES. 


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BY 


^'^tfL       i-') 


HENRY    KINGSLEY, 

AUTHOR  OF  'GEOFFRY  HAMLYN,"  "  KAVENSHOE,"  ETC. 


BOSTON: 
TICKNOR     AND     FIELDS 

1865. 


author's    edition. 


SE  COND    EDITION. 


University   Press: 

Welch,   Bigklow,   and    Company, 

Cambridge. 


THIS    TALE    IS     DEDICATED 


TO 


MY    WIFE. 


V**^,'*  r^^ 


—-<>*.. -r.^ 

I  mT^ 


PREFACE  /^^^"^ '" 


In  this  story,  an  uneducated  girl,  who  might,  I  fancy, 
after  a  year  and  a  half  at  a  boarding-school,  have  devel- 
oped into  a  very  noble  lady,  is  arraigned  before  the 
reader,  and  awaits  his  judgment. 

The  charge  against  her  is,  that,  by  an  overstrained  idea 
of  duty,  she  devoted  herself  to  her  brother,  and  made 
her  lover  but  a  secondary  person.  I  am  instructed  to 
reply  on  her  behalf,  that,  in  the  struggle  between  incli- 
nation and  what  she  considered  her  duty,  she,  right  or 
wrong,  held  by  duty  at  the  risk  of  breaking  her  own 
heart. 

I  know  what  /  think  about  the  old  question  between 
love  and  duty;  but,  since  what  I  think  is  not  the  least 
consequence,  I  shall  not  state  my  conclusions.  I  have 
used  all  my  best  art  in  putting  the  question  before  the 
reader,  and  must  leave  him  to  draw  his  own.  I  am  only 
sorry  to  see  such  a  very  important  social  question  (a 
question  which,  thanks  to  the  nobleness  of  our  women, 
comes  en  visage  to  us  continually)  so  very  poorly  han- 
dled. 


CONTENTS. 


Chapter  Pagb 

I,  Mr.  Secretary   Oxton  thinks    Gerty  Neville    little 

BETTER  THAN  A  FoOL 1 

n.  James  Burton's  Story:  shows  the  disgraceful  lowness 

OF  HIS  Origin 6 

III.  James  Burton's  Story:  Cousin  Reuben    ....  11 

IV.  The  Colonial  Secretary  sees  Snakes  and  other  Vermin  13 
V.  James  Burton's    Story:   the  Ghost's  Room  is  invaded, 

AND  James  puts  his  Foot  through  the  Floor        .        .  18 
VI.  James  Burton's   Story:  the  Preliminaries  to  the  mo- 
mentous Expedition  to  Stanlake      .        .        •    ,^-        .24 

VII.  The  Battle  of  Barker's  Gap 31 

Vin.   James  Burton's  Story:  the  Immediate   Results  of  the 

Expedition  to  Stanlake 37 

IX.  Sib  George  Hillyar 44 

X.  Erne  makes  his  Escape  from  the  Brazen  Tower   .        .  48 

XL   The  Secretary  sees  nothing  for  it  but  to  Submit   .  52 

Xn.  Disposes  of  Samuel  Burton  for  a  time      ....  57 

XIII.  James  Burton's  Story:   the   Golden  Thread  begins  to 

RUN  off  the  Reel 60 

XIV.  The  Gleam  of  the  Autumn  Sunset  .        .  •     .        .        .  68 
XV.  In  which  the  Snake  crreps  out  of  the  Grass        .        .  72 

XVI.  James  Burton's  Story:  Erne  and  Emma         ...  76 

XVII.  Erne  and  Reuben 81 

XVin.  Jajvies  Burton's  Story:  Reuben  and  Sir  George  Hillyar  84 

XIX.   Samuel  Burton  goes  into  the  Licensed  Victualling  line  91 
XX.  James   Burton's   Story:  Reuben  e^ctertains  Mysterious 

AND  Unsatisfactory  Company 96 

XXI.   Gerty  goes  on  the  War-Trail 101 

XXII.  James  Burton's  Story:  Very  Low  Company      .       .       .  108 


X  CONTENTS. 

XXIII.  James  Burton's  Story:  the  Hillyars  and  the  Burtons 

AMONG   the    ToJIUS 113 

XXIV.  Homeward  Bound 121 

XXV.   Gerty's  First  Innings 125 

XXVI.  James  Burton's  Story:  James  and  his  Sister  fall  out  133 
XXVII.  James  Burton's  Story:  the  Ghost  shows  a  Light  for 

the  First  Time    .        » 136 

XXVIII.   Affairs  at  Stanlake 146 

XXIX.  James   Burton's   Story:   the   Beginning  of   the   Bad 

Times 151 

XXX.  James  Burton's  Story:  in  which  two  great  Pieces  of 
Good  Fortune  befall  us,  —  one  Visible,  the   other 

Invisible 158 

XXXI.   George  begins  to  take  a  new  interest  in  Reuben  163 

XXXII.   Gerty's  Hybernation  Terminates 171 

XXXin.  J.  Burton's  Story:  the  Ghost  shows  a  Light  for  the 

Second  Time 173 

XXXI V.   Sir  George's  Escritoire 180 

XXXV.  James  Burton's  Story:  Miss  Brown's  Troubles  come 
to  an  End,  while  Mr.  Erne  Hillyar's  fairly  com- 
mence       186 

XXXVI.   Le  Roi  est  Mort.  —  Vive  le  Roi 190 

XXXVII.  James  Burton's  Story:  Erne's  Nurse       ....  193 

XXXVIII.   Sir  George  Hillyar  is  Witness  for  Character      .  196 

XXXIX.  Uncle  Bob  surprises  Erne 201 

XL.   The  Last  of  the  Church-yard 205 

XLI.  Emma's  Work  begins  to  be  cut  out  for  her        .        .  210 
XLII.  Emma  astonishes  a  good  many  People  :  the  Members 

OF  HER  Family  in  particular 215 

XLIII.  Emma  gives  the  Key  to  the  Landlord       .        .        .  224 
XLIV.  James  Burton's  Story:  our  Voyage,  with  a  long  De- 
scription OF  SOME  QUEER   FiSH  THAT  WE  SAW         .          .  230 

XLV.   Gerty  in  Society 241 

XL VI.   The  Letter,  which  was  not  from  Mrs.  Nalder  .        .  246 

XLVII.   Sir  George  Hillyar  starts  on  his  Adventure         .  251 

XLVIII.  James  Burton's  Story:  the  Forge  is  lit  up  once  more  256 

XLIX.  In  which  two  Bad  Pennies  come  back    ....  266 

L.  Trevittick's  latent  Madness  begins  to  appear       .  271 

LI.   Changes  in  the  Romilly  Home 281 

LH.  Feeds  the  Boar  at  the  Old  Frank?  ....  289 

Lni.  James  Burton's  Story:  the  Clayton  Menage       .       .  299 


CONTENTS.  xi 

LIV.  Emma's  Visit 303 

LV.   The  Land  Sale 306 

LVI.   The  Burnt  Hut  Coivipany 313 

LVII.  The  Last  of  the  Forge 318 

LVin.   Erne  goes  on  his  Adventures 321 

LIX.  James  Oxton  goes  out,  and  Widow  North  comes  in  324 

LX.   Too  Late!   Too  Late! 328 

LXL   Husband  and  Wife 332 

LXn.   Gerty's  Anabasis 335 

LXHL   Samuel  Burton  gets  a  Fright 341 

LXIV.   Samuel  Burton's  Resolution 344 

LXV.  Ex-Secretary  Oxton  gets  a  Lesson     ....  347 

LXVI.   Something  to  do 351 

LXVIL   The  Backstairs  History  of  Two  Great  Coalitions    .  863 
LXVin.   Samuel  Burton  makes  his  Last  Appearance  at  Stan- 
lake      360 

LXIX.  Sir  George  and  Samuel  close  their  Accounts,  and 

Dissolve  Partnership 363 

LXX.  Eeuben's  Temptation 371 

LXXI.  James  Burton's  Story 376 

LXXn.  The  Omeo  Disaster 381 

LXXHL   The  Midnight  Meeting 389 

LXXIV.   The  Sky  brightening 391 

LXXV.  Emma's  angelic  Ministrations 395 

LXXVL  Jame^Burton's  Story:  Captain  Arkwright  goes  back 

ONCE   MORE 403 

LXXVn.  The  Cyclone 405 

LXXVni.   James  Burton's  Story:  No  Answer         ....  412 

LXXIX.  Conclusion _.       .       .  417 


THE  IIILLYARS  AND  THE  BUETOXS. 


CHAPTER    I. 

MR.  SECRETARY  OXTON  THINKS  GERTY  NEVILLE  LITTLE  BETTER 

THAN  A  FOOL. 

The  Houses  were  "  up "  and  the  Colonial  Secretary  was  in 
tlie  bosom  of  his  family. 

It  had  been  one  of  the  quietest  and  pleasantost  little  sessions 
on  record.  All  the  Government  bills  had  slid  easily  througli. 
Tliere  had  been  a  little  hitch  on  the  new  vScab  Bill ;  several 
members  with  infected  runs  opposing  it  lustily ;  threatening  to 
murder  it  by  inches  in  committee,  and  so  on :  but,  on  the  Secre- 
tary saying  that  he  should  not  feel  it  his  duty  to  advise  his  Ex- 
cellency to  prorogue  until  it  was  passed,  other  members  put  it  to 
the  opposing  members  whether  they  were  to  sit  there  till  Christ- 
mas, with  the  thermometer  at  120°,  and  the  opposing  members 
gave  way  with  a  groan ;  so  a  very  few  days  afterwards  his  Ex- 
cellency put  on  his  best  uniform,  cocked  hat,  sword  and  all,  and 
came  down,  and  prorogued  them.  And  then,  taking  their  boys 
from  school,  and  mounting  their  horses,  tliey  all  rode  away,  east, 
north,  and  west,  through  forest  and  swamp,  over  plain  and  moun- 
tain, to  their  sunny  homes,  by  the  pleasant  river-sides  of  the 
interior. 

So  the  Colonial  Secretary  was  in  the  bosom  of  his  family.  Pie 
was  sitting  in  his" veranda  in  a  rocking-chair,  dressed  in  white 
from  head  to  foot,  with  the  exception  of  his  boots,  which  were 
shining  black,  and  his  necktie,  which  was  bright  blue.  He  was 
a  tall  man,  and  of  noble  presence,  —  a  man  of  two-and-forty,  or 
thereabouts,  —  with  a  fine  fearless  eye,  as  of  one  who  had  con- 
fronted the  dangers  of  an  infant  colony,  looking  altogether  like 
the  highly  intellectual,  educated  man  he  was  ;  and  on  every  but- 
ton of  his  clean  white  coat,  on  every  fold  of  his  spotless  linen,  in 
every  dimple  of  his  close-shaved,  red-brown  face,  was  written  in 
large  letters  the  word,  Gentleman. 

lie  had  come  down  to  one  of  his  many  stations,  the  favorite 

1  A 


2  THE  HlLlTAr.S  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

o^ie,- lying  silxKut  sixty  miles  along  the  coast  from  Palmerston,  the 
capital  of  Cooksland ;  and,  having  arrived  only  the  night  before, 
was  dreaming  away  the  morning  in  his  veranda,  leaving  the 
piles  of  papers,  domestic  and  j)ai-liaineiitary,  which  he  had  accu- 
mulated on  a  small  table  beside  him,  totally  neglected. 

For  it  was  impossible  to  work.  The  contrast  between  the 
burnino^  streets  of  Palmerston  and  this  cool  veranda  was  so  ex- 
quisite,  that  it  became  an  absolute  necessity  to  think  about  that 
and  nothing  else.  Just  outside,  in  the  sun,  a  garden,  a  wilder- 
ness of  blazing  flowers,  sloped  rapidly  down  to  the  forest,  who.-e 
topmost  boughs  were  level  with  your  feet.  Through  the  forest 
rushed  the  river,  and  beyond  the  forest  was  the  broad,  yellow 
plain,  and  beyond  the  plain  the  heath,  and  beyond  the  heath  the 
gleaming  sea,  with  two  fantastic  purple  islands  on  the  horizon. 

The  Colonial  Secretary  had  no  boys  to  bring  home  from  school, 
for  only  six  months  before  this  he  had  married  the  beauty  of  the 
colony,  Miss  Neville,  who  was  at  that  moment  iu  the  garden  with 
her  youngest  sister  gathering  flowers. 

The  Secretary  by  degrees  allowed  his  eyes  to  wander  from  the 
beautiful  prospect  iDcfore  him,  to  the  two  white  figures  among  the 
flowers.  By  degrees  his  attention  became  concentrated  on  tliem, 
and  after  ^  time  a  shade  of  dissatisfaction  stole  over  his  handsome 
face,  and  a  wrinkle  or  two  formed  on  his  broad  forehead. 

Why  was  this  ?  The  reason  was  a  very  simple  one :  he  saw 
that  Mrs.  Oxton  was  only  half  intent  upon  her  flowers,  and  was 
keeping  one  eye  upon  her  lord  and  master.  He  said,  "  Bother- 
ation." 

She  saw  that  he  spoke,  though  she  little  thought  what  he 
said;  and  so  she  came  floating  easily  towards  him  through  the 
flowers,  looking  by  no  means  unlike  a  great  white  and  crimson 
Amaryllis  herself.  She  may  have  been  a  thought  too  fragile,  a 
thought  too  hectic,  —  all  real  Australian  beauties  are  so ;  she 
looked,  indeed,  as  though,  if  you  blew  at  her,  her  hair  woukl 
come  off  like  the  down  of  a  dandelion,  but  nevertheless  she  was 
so  wonderfully  beautiful,  that  you  could  barely  restrain  an  ex- 
clamation of  delighted  surprise  when  you  first  saw  her.  This 
being  came  softly  up  to  the  Secretary,  put  her  arm  round  his 
neck,  and  kissed  him ;  and  yet  the  Secretary  gave  no  outward 
signs  of  satisfaction  whatever.  Still  the  Secretary  was  not  a 
"  brute  " ;  far  from  it, 

"  My  love,"  said  Mrs.  Oxton. 

"  Well,  my  dear,"  said  the  Secretary. 

"  I  want  to  ask  you  a  favor,  my  love." 

"  My  sweetest  Agnes,  it  is  quite  impossible.  I  will  send  Ed- 
ward as  sub-overseer  to  Tullabaloora ;  but  into  a  Government 
place  he  does  not  go." 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  8 

"  My  clear  James " 

"  It  is  no  use,  Agnes  ;  it  is  really  no  use.  I  have  been  accused 
in  the  public  papers  of  placina;  too  many  of  my  own  and  my  wife's 
family.  I  have  been  taunted  with  it  in  the  House.  There  is 
great  foundation  of  truth  in  it.  It  is  really  no  use,  if  you  talk 
till  doomsday.     AVhat  are  you  going  to  give  me  for  lunch  ?  " 

Mrs.  Oxton  was  perfectly  unmoved  ;  she  merely  seated  herself 
comfortably  on  her  husband's  knee. 

"  Suppose,  now,"  she  said,  "  that  you  had  been  putting  your- 
self in  a  WMcked  passion  for  nothing.  Suppose  I  had  changed 
my  mind  about  Edward.  Suppose  I  thought  you  quite  right  in 
not  placing  any  more  of  our  own  people.  And  suppose  I  only 
wanted  a  little  information  about  somebody's  antecedents.  What 
then  ?  " 

"  Why  then  I  have  been  a  brute.     Say  on." 

"  My  dearest  James.  Do  you  know  anything  against  Lieuten- 
ant Hillyar  ?  " 

"  H'm,"  said  the  Secretary.  "  Nothing  new.  He  came  over 
here  under  a  cloud ;  but  so  many  young  men  do  that.  I  am 
chary  of  asking  too  many  questions.  He  was  very  fast  at  home, 
I  believe,  and  went  rambling  through  Europe  for  ten  years ;  yet 
I  do  not  think  I  should  be  justified  in  saying  I  knew  anything 
very  bad  against  him." 

"  He  will  be  Sir  George  Hillyar,"  said  Mrs.  Oxton,  pensively. 

"  He  will  indeed,"  said  the  Secretary,  "  and  have  ten  thousand 
a  year.     He  will  be  a  catch  for  some  one." 

"  My  dear,  I  am  afraid  he  is  caught." 

"No!    Who  is  it?" 

"  No  other  than  our  poor  Gerty.  She  has  been  staying  at  the 
Barkers',  in  the  same  house  ^vith  him  ;  and  the  long  and  the 
short  of  it  is,  that  they  are  engaged." 

The  Secretary  rose  and  walked  up  and  down  the  veranda. 
He  was  very  much  disturbed. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said  at  last,  "  I  would  give  a  thousand  pounds 
if  this  were  not  true." 

''  Why  ?  do  you  know  anything  against  him  ?  " 

"  Well,  just  now  I  carelessly  said  I  did  not ;  but  now  when  the 
gentleman  coolly  proposes  himself  for  my  brother-in-law !  It  is 
perfectly  intolerable  1 " 

"  Do  you  know  anything  special,  James?" 

"  No.  But  look  at  the  man,  my  love.  Look  at  his  insolent, 
contradictory  manner.  Look  at  that  nasty  drop  he  has  in  his 
eyes.  Look  at  his  character  for  profligacy.  Look  at  his  unpopu- 
larity in  the  force;  and  then  think  of  our  beautiful  little  Gerty 
being  handed  over  to  such  a  man.  Oh  I  Lord,  you  know  it  really 
is " 


k  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  I  hate  the  man  as  much  as  you  do,"  said  Mrs.  Oxton.  "  I 
can't  bear  to  be  in  the  room  with  him.     But  Gerty  loves  him." 

"  Poor  little  bird." 

"And  he  is  liandsome." 

"  Confound  him,  yes.  And  charming  too,  of  course,  with  his 
long  pale  face  and  his  dolce  far-niente,  insolent  manner,  and  his 
great  eyes  like  blank  windows,  out  of  which  the  Devil  looks  once 
a  day,  for  fear  you  might  forget  he  was  there.  Oh !  a  charming 
man ! " 

"  Then  he  will  be  a  baronet,  with  an  immense  fortune ;  and 
Gerty  will  be  Lady  Hillyar." 

"And  the  most  unfortunate  little  flower  in  the  wide  world," 
said  the  Secretary. 

"I  think  you  are  right,"  said  Mrs.  Oxton,  with  a  sigh.  "See, 
here  she  comes ;  don't  let  her  know  I  have  told  you." 

Gertrude  Neville  came  towards  them  at  this  moment.  She 
was  very  like  her  sister,  but  still  more  fragile  in  form ;  a  kind  of 
caricature  of  her  sister.  The  white  in  her  face  was  whiter,  and 
the  red  redder ;  her  hair  was  of  a  shade  more  brilliant  brown ; 
and  she  looked  altogether  like  some  wonderful  hectic  ghost.  If 
you  were  delighted  with  her  sister's  beauty  you  were  awed  with 
hers ;  not  awed  because  there  was  anything  commanding  or  deter- 
mined in  the  expression  of  her  face,  but  because  she  was  so  very 
fragile  and  gentle.  The  first  glance  of  her  great  hazel  eyes  put 
her  under  your  protection  to  the  death.  You  had  a  feeling  of 
awe,  while  you  wondered  why  it  had  pleased  God  to  create  any- 
thing so  helpless,  so  beautiful,  and  so  good,  and  to  leave  her  to 
the  chances  and  troubles  of  this  rouo-h  world.  You  could  no 
more  have  willingly  caused  a  shade  of  anxiety  to  pass  over  that 
face,  than  you  could  have  taken  the  beautiful  little  shell  parra- 
keet,  which  sat  on  her  shoulder,  and  killed  it  before  her  eyes. 

The  Secretary  set  his  jaw,  and  swore,  to  himself,  that  it  should 
never  be ;  but  what  was  the  good  of  his  swearing  ? 

"  See,  James,"  she  said  to  him,  speaking  with  a  voice  like  that 
of  a  stock-dove  among  the  deep  black  shadows  of  an  English  wood 
in  June,  "  I  am  going  to  fill  all  your  vases  with  flowers.  Idle  Ag- 
nes has  run  away  to  you,  and  has  left  me  all  the  work.  See  here ; 
I  am  going  to  set  these  great  fern  boughs  round  the  china  vase 
on  the  centre-table,  and  bend  them  so  that  they  droop,  you  see. 
And  then  I  shall  lay  in  these  long  wreaths  of  scarlet  Kennedia 
to  hang  over  the  fern,  and  then  I  shall  tangle  in  these  scarlet 

1)assion-flowers,  and  then  I  sliall  have  a  circle  of  these  belladonna 
ilies,  and  in  the  centre  of  all  I  shall  jiut  this  moss-rosebud,  — 

"  For  the  bride  she  chose,  the  red,  red,  rose, 
And  by  its  thorn  died  she, 

"  James,  don't  break  ray  heart,  for  I   love  him.     My  own 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  5 

brother,  I  have  never  had  a  brother  but  you ;  try  to  make  the 
best  of  him  for  my  sake.  You  will  now,  won't  you  ?  I  know 
you  don't  like  him,  —  your  characters  are  dissimilar,  —  but  I  am 
sure  you  will  get  to.  I  did  not  like  him  at  first;  but  it  came 
upon  me  in  time.  You  don't  know  how  really  good  he  is,  and 
how  bitterly  he  has  been  ill-used.  Come,  James,  say  you  will 
try  to  like  him." 

What  could  the  poor  Secretary  do  but  soothe  her,  and  defer 
any  decided  opinion  on  the  matter.  If  it  had  been  Mr.  Cornelius 
Murphy  making  a  modest  request,  the  Secretary  would  have  been 
stern  enough,  would  have  done  what  he  should  have  done  here, 
—  put  his  veto  on  it  once  and  forever ;  but  he  could  not  stand  his 
favorite  little  sister-in-law,  with  her  tears,  her  beauty,  and  her 
caresses.     He  temporized. 

But  his  holiday,  to  which  he  had  looked  forward  so  long, 
was  quite  spoilt.  Little  Gerty  Neville  had  wound  herself  so 
thoroughly  round  his  heart ;  she  had  been  such  a  sweet  little 
confidant  to  him  in  his  courtship ;  had  brought  so  many  precious 
letters,  had  planned  so  many  meetings ;  had  been,  in  short,  such 
a  dear  little  go-between,  that  when  he  thought  of  her  being  taken 
away  from  him  by  a  man  of  somewhat  queer  character,  whom 
he  heartily  despised  and  disliked,  it  made  him  utterly  miserable. 
As  Gerty  had  been  connected  closely  with  the  brightest  part  of 
a  somewhat  stormy  life,  so  also  neither  he  nor  his  wife  had  ever 
laid  down  a  plan  for  the  brighter  future  which  did  not  include 
her  ;  and  now !  —  it  was  intolerable. 

He  brooded  for  three  days,  and  then,  having  seen  to  the  more 
necessary  part  of  his  station-work,  he  determined  to  go  and  make 
fuller  inquiries.  So  the  big  bay  horse  was  saddled,  and  he  rode 
thoughtfully  away;  across  the  paddocks,  through  the  forest,  over 
the  plain,  down  to  the  long  yellow  sands  fringed  with  snarling 
surf,  and  so  northward  towards  the  faint  blue  promontory  of  Cape 
Wilberforce. 


% 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 


CHAPTER    II. 

JAMES  BURTON'S  STORY  :    SHOWS   THE  DISGRACEFUL  LOWNESS 

OF   HIS   ORIGIN. 

I  AM  of  the  same  trade  as  my  father,  —  a  blacksmith,  —  al- 
though I  have  not  had  hammer  or  pincers  in  my  hand  this  ten 
years.  And  although  I  am  not  in  the  most  remote  degree  con- 
nected with  any  aristocratic  family,  yet  I  hold  the  title  of  Honor- 
able. The  Honorable  James  Burton  being  a  member  of  the 
Supreme  Council  of  the  Colony  of  Cooksland. 

As  early  as  I  can  remember,  my  father  carried  on  his  trade  in 
Brown's  Row,  Chelsea.  His  business  was  a  very  good  one,  -^— 
what  we  call  a  good  shoeing  trade,  principally  with  the  omnibus 
horses.  It  paid  very  well,  for  my  father  had  four  men  in  his 
shop ;  though,  if  he  had  had  his  choice,  he  would  have  preferred 
some  higher  branch  of  smith's  work,  for  he  had  considerable  me- 
chanical genius,  and  no  small  ambition,  of  a  sort. 

I  think  that  my  father  was  the  ideal  of  all  the  blacksmiths 
who  ever  lived.  He  was  the  blacksmith.  A  man  with  a  calm, 
square,  honest  face ;  very  strong,  very  good-humored,  with  plenty 
of  kindly  interest  in  his  neighbors'  affairs,  and  a  most  accurate 
memory  for  them.  He  was  not  only  a  most  excellent  tradesman, 
but  he  possessed  those  social  qualities  which  are  so  necessary  in 
a  blacksmith,  to  a  very  high  degree  ;  for  in  our  rank  in  life  the 
blacksmith  is  a  very  important  person  indeed.  He  is  owner  of 
the  very  best  gossip-station,  after  the  bar  of  the  public-house : 
and,  consequently,  if  he  be  a  good  fellow  (as  he  is  pretty  certain 
to  be,  though  this  may  be  partiality  on  my  part),  he  is  a  man 
more  often  referred  to,  and  consulted  with,  than  the  publican ; 
for  this  reason :  that  the  married  women  are  jealous  of  the  publi- 
can, and  not  so  of  the  blacksmith.  As  for  my  father,  he  was 
umpire  of  the  buildings,  —  the  stopper  of  fights,  and,  sometimes, 
even  the  healer  of  matrimonial  differences. 

More  than  once  I  have  known  a  couple  come  and  "  have  it 
out"  in  my  father's  shop.  Sometimes,  during  my  apprentice- 
ship, my  father  would  send  me  out  of  the  way  on  these  occasions; 
would  say  to  me,  for  instance,  "  Hallo,  old  man,  here  's  Bob  Chit- 
tie  and  liis  missis  a-coming ;  cut  away  and  help  mother  a  bit." 
But  at  other  times  he  would  not  consider  it  necessary  for  me  to 
go,  and  so  I  used  to  stay,  and  hear  it  all.  The  woman  invariably 
began ;  the  man  confined  himself  mostly  to  sulky  contradictions. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  7 

My  father,  and  T,  and  the  men,  went  on  with  our  work  ;  my  flxther 
would  throw  in  a  soothing  word  wherever  lie  could,  until  tlie 
woman  began  to  cry ;  upon  wliich  my  father,  in  a  low,  confiden- 
tial growl,  addressing  the  man  as  "•  old  chap,"  would  persuade 
him  to  go  and  make  it  up  witli  her.  And  he  and  she,  having 
come  there  for  no  other  purpose,  would  do  so. 

My  mother  never  assisted  at  this  sort  of  scenes,  whether  seri- 
ous or  trifling.  She  utterly  ignored  the  shop  at  such  times,  and 
was  preternaturally  busy  in  the  house  among  her  pots,  and  pans, 
and  children,  ostentatiously  singing.  When  it  was  all  over  she 
used  accidentally  to  catch  sight  of  the  couple,  and  be  for  one  mo- 
ment stricken  dumb  with  amazement,  and  then  burst  into  voluble 
welcome.  She  was  supposed  to  know  nothing  at  all  about  what 
had  passed.     Sweet  mother  !  thy  arts  were  simple  enough. 

She  was  a  very  tall  woman,  with  square,  large  features,  who 
had  never,  I  think,  been  handsome.  When  I  begin  my  story  my 
mother  was  already  the  mother  of  nine  children,  and  I,  the  eldest, 
was  fifteen ;  so,  if  she  had  at  any  time  had  any  beauty,  it  must 
have  vanished  lonor  before  ;  but  she  was  handsome  enouo;h  for  us. 
When  she  was  dressed  for  church,  in  all  the  colors  of  the  rain- 
bow, in  a  style  which  would  have  driven  Jane  Clarke  out  of  her 
mind,  she  was  always  inspected  by  the  whole  family  before  she 
started,  and  pronounced  satisfactory.  And  at  dinner  my  sister 
Emma  would  perhaps  say,  "  Law  !  mother  did  look  so  beautiful 
in  church  this  morning ;  you  never ! " 

She  had  a  hard  time  of  it  with  us.  The  family  specialities 
were  health,  good  humor,  and  vivacity ;  somewhat  too  much  of 
the  last  among  the  junior  members.  I,  Joe,  and  Emma,  might 
be  trusted,  but  all  the  rest  were  terrible  pickles  ;  the  most  un- 
luckly  children  I  ever  saw.  Whenever  I  was  at  work  with 
father,  and  we  saw  a  crowd  coming  round  the  corner,  he  would 
say,  "  Cut  away,  old  chap,  and  see  who  it  is  " ;  for  we  knew  it 
must  either  be  one  of  our  own  little  ones,  or  a  young  Chittle.  K 
it  was  one  of  the  young  Chittles,  I  used  to  hold  up  my  hand  and 
whistle,  and  father  used  to  go  on  with  his  work.  But  if  I  was 
silent,  and  in  that  way  let  father  know  that  it  was  one  of  our 
own  little  ones,  he  would  begin  to  roar  out,  and  want  to  know 
which  it  was,  and  what  he  'd  been  up  to.  To  which  I  would 
have  to  roar  in  return  (I  give  you  an  instance  only,  out  of  many 
such)  that  it  was  Fred.  That  he  had  fallen  off  a  barge  under 
Battersea  Bridge.  Had  been  picked  out  by  young  Tom  Cole. 
Said  he  liked  it.  Or  that  it  was  Ehza.  Had  wedged  her  head 
into  a  gas-pipe.  Been  took  out  black  in  the  face.  Said  Billy 
Chittle  had  told  her  she  was  n't  game  to  it.  These  were  the  sort 
of  things  1  had  to  roar  out  to  my  father,  while  I  had  the  delin- 
quent in  my  arms,  and  was  carrying  him  or  her  indoors  to  moth- 


8  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

er ;  the  delinquent  being  in  a  triumphant  frame  of  mind,  evidently 
under  the  impression  that  he  had  distinguished  himself,  and  added 
another  liower  to  the  chaplet  of  the  family  honor. 

I  never  saw  my  mother  out  of  temper.  On  these,  and  other 
occasions,  she  would  say  that,  Lord  'a  mercy  !  no  woman  ever 
was  teased  and  plagued  with  her  cliildren  as  she  was  (and  there 
was  a  degree  of  truth  in  that).  That  she  didn't  know  what 
would  become  of  them  (which  was  to  a  certain  extent  true  also)  ; 
that  she  hoj^ed  none  of  them  would  come  to  a  bad  end  (in  which 
hope  I  sincerely  joined)  ;  and  that  finally,  she  thought  that  if 
some  of  them  were  well  shook,  and  put  to  bed,  it  would  do  'em  a 
deal  of  good,  and  that  their  Emma  would  never  love  them  any 
more.  But  they  never  cared  for  this  sort  of  thing.  They  were 
not  a  bit  afraid  of  mother.  They  were  never  shook;  their 
Kmma  continued  to  love  them ;  and,  as  for  being  put  to  bed, 
they  never  thought  of  such  a  thing  happening  to  them,  until  they 
heard  the  rattle  of  brother  Joe's  crutch  on  the  lloor,  when  he 
came  home  from  the  night-school. 

Brother  Joe's  crutch.  Yes ;  our  Joe  was  a  cripple.  With 
poor  Joe,  that  restless  vivacity  to  which  I  have  called  your  at- 
tention above,  had  ended  very  sadly.  He  was  one  of  the  finest 
children  ever  seen ;  but,  when  only  three  years  old,  poor  Joe 
stole  away,  and  climbed  up  a  ladder,  —  he  slipped,  when  some 
seven  or  eight  feet  from  the  ground,  and  fell  on  his  back,  doub- 
ling one  of  his  legs  under  him.  The  little  soul  fluttered  between 
earth  and  heaven  for  some  time,  but  at  last  determined  to  stay 
with  us.  All  that  science,  skill,  and  devotion  could  do,  was  done 
for  him  at  St.  George's  Hospital ;  but  poor  Joe  was  a  hunchback, 
with  one  leg  longer  than  the  other,  but  with  the  limbs  of  a  giant, 
and  the  face  of  a  Byron. 

It  is  a  great  cause  of  thankfulness  to  me,  when  I  think  that 
Joe  inherited  the  gentle,  patient  temper  of  his  father  and  mother. 
Even  when  a  mere  boy,  I  began  dimly  to  understand  that  it  was 
fortunate  that  Joe  was  good-tempered.  "When  I  and  the  other 
boys  would  be  at  rounders,  and  he  would  be  looking  intently  and 
eagerly  on,  with  his  fingers  twitching  with  nervous  anxiety  to  get 
hold  of  the  stick,  shouting  now  to  one,  and  now  to  another,  by 
name,  and  now  making  short  runs,  in  his  excitement,  on  his 
crutch  ;  at  such  times,  I  say,  it  used  to  come  into  my  boy's  head, 
that  it  was  as  well  that  Joe  was  a  good-tempered  fellow;  and 
this  conviction  grew  on  me  year  by  year,  as  I  watched  with  pride 
and  awe  the  great  intellect  unfolding,  and  the  mighty  restless 
ambition  soaring  higher  and  higlier.  Yes,  it  was  well  that  Joe 
had  learned  to  love  in  his  childhood. 

Joe's  unfailing  good  humor,  combined  with  his  affliction,  had  a 
wonderful  influence  on  us  for  good.     His  misfortune  being   so 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  9 

fearfully  greater  than  any  of  our  petty  vexations,  and  his  good 
temper  being  so  much  more  unfailing  than  ours,  he  was  there 
continually  among  us  as  an  exam[)le,  —  an  example  which  it  was 
impossible  not  to  ibllow  to  some  extent ;  even  if  one  had  not  had 
an  angel  to  point  to  it  for  us. 

For,  in  the  sense  of  being  a  messenger  of  good,  certainly  my 
sister  Emma  was  an  angel.  She  was  a  year  younger  than  me. 
She  was  very  handsome,  not  very  pretty,  made  on  a  large  model 
like  my  mother,  but  with  fewer  angles.  Perhaps  the  most  notice- 
able thinix  about  her  was  her  voice.  Whether  the  tone  of  it  was 
natural,  or  whether  it  had  acquired  that  tone  from  being  used 
almost  exclusively  in  cooing  to,  and  soothing,  children,  I  cannot 
say ;  but  there  was  no  shrillness  in  it :  it  was  perfectly,  nay  sin- 
gularly clear ;  but  there  was  not  a  sharp  note  in  the  whole  of 
sweet  Emma's  gamut. 

She  was  very  much  devoted  to  all  of  us ;  but  towards  Joe  her 
devotion  was  intensified.  I  do  not  assert  —  because  I  do  not  be- 
lieve —  that  she  loved  him  better  than  the  rest  of  us,  but  from 
an  early  age  she  simply  devoted  herself  to  him.  I  did  not  see  it 
at  first.  The  first  hint  of  it  which  I  got  was  in  the  first  year  of 
my  apprenticeship.  I  had  come  in  to  tea,  and  father  had  relieved 
me  in  the  shop,  and  all  our  little  ones  had  done  tea  and  were 
talking  nonsense,  at  which  I  began  to  assist.  We  were  talking 
about  who  each  of  us  was  to  marry,  and  what  we  would  have  for 
dinner  on  the  auspicious  occasion.  It  was  arranged  that  I  was 
to  marry  Miss  de  Bracy,  from  the  Victoria  Theatre,  and  we  were 
to  have  sprats  and  gin-and-water ;  and  that  such  a  one  was  to 
marry  such  a  one  ;  but  on  one  thing  the  little  ones  were  agreed, 
that  Emma  was  to  marry  Joe.  When  they  cried  out  this,  she 
raised  her  eyes  to  mine  for  an  instant,  and  droi)ped  them  again 
with  a  smile.     I  wondered  why  then,  but  I  know  now. 

On  my  fifteenth  birthday  I  was  bound  to  my  father.  I  think 
that  was  nearly  the  happiest  day  of  my  life.  The  whole  family 
was  in  a  state  of  rampant  pride  about  it.  I  am  sure  I  don't 
know  what  there  was  to  be  proud  of,  but  proud  we  were.  Joe 
sat  staring  at  me  with  his  bright  eyes,  every  now  and  then  giving 
a  sniff  of  profound  satisfaction,  or  pegging  out  in  a  restless  man- 
ner for  a  short  expedition  into  the  court.  Emma  remarked  sev- 
eral times,  "Lawk,  only  just  to  think  about  Jim!"  And  my 
younger  brothers  and  sisters  kept  on  saying  to  all  their  acquaint- 
ances in  the  street,  "  Our  Jim  is  bound  to  father,"  with  such  a 
very  triumphant  air,  that  the  other  children  resented  it,  and 
Sally  Agar  said  something  so  disparaging  of  the  blacksmith-trade 
in  general,  that  our  Eliza  gave  her  a  good  shove ;  upon  which 
Jane  Agar,  the  elder  sister,  shook  our  Eliza,  and,  when  Emma 

came  out  to  the  rescue,  put  her  tongue  out  at  her  j  which  had 
1* 


10  THE  niLLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

sucli  an  effect  on  Emma's  gentle  spirit  that  she  gave  up  the  con- 
test at  once,  and  went  in-doors  in  tears,  and  for  the  rest  of  the 
day  tohl  every  friend  she  met,  "■  Lawk,  there,  if  that  Jane  Agar 
did  n't  take  and  put  her  tongue  out  at  me,  because  tiieir  vSally 
shoved  our  Ehza,  and  I  took  and  told  her  she  had  n't  ought  to  do 
it  " :  and  they  retailed  it  to  other  girls  again  ;  juld  at  hist  it  was 
known  all  over  the  buildings  that  Jane  had  gone  and  put  her 
tongue  out  at  Emma  Burton ;  and  it  was  unanimously  voted  that 
she  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  herself. 

We  were  simple  folk,  easily  made  happy,  even  by  seeing  that 
the  other  girls  were  fond  of  our  sister.  But  there  was  another 
source  of  happiness  to  us  on  that  auspicious  fifteenth  birthday  of 
mine.     That  day  week  we  were  to  move  into  the  great  house. 

Our  present  home  was  a  very  poor  place,  only  a  six-roomed 
house ;  and  that,  with  nine  children  and  another  ajiprentice  be- 
sides myself,  was  intolerable.  Any  time  this  year  past  we  had 
seen  that  it  was  necessary  to  move :  but  there  had  been  one  hitch 
to  our  doing  so,  —  there  was  no  house  to  move  into,  except  into 
a  very  large  house  wdiich  stood  by  itself,  as  it  were  fronting  the 
buildings  opposite  our  forge ;  which  contained  twenty-five  rooms, 
some  of  them  very  large,  and  which  W' as  called  by  us,  indifferently, 
Church  Place,  or  Queen  Elizabeth's  Palace. 

It  had  been  in  reality  the  palace  of  the  young  Earl  of  Essex , 
a  very  large  three-storied  house  of  old  brick,  with  stone-mullioned 
windows  and  door-ways.  Many  of  the  windows  were  blind,  bricked 
up  at  different  times  as  the  house  descended  in  the  social  scale. 
The  roof  was  singularly  high,  hanging  somewhat  far  over  a  rich 
cornice,  and  in  that  roof  there  was  a  single  large  dormer-window 
at  the  north  end. 

The  house  had  now  been  empty  for  some  time,  and  it  had  al- 
ways had  a  great  attraction  for  us  children.  In  the  first  place  it 
was  empty ;  in  the  second  place,  it  had  been  inhabited  by  real 
princesses ;  and  in  the  third,  there  was  a  ghost,  who  used  to  show 
a  light  in  the  aforementioned  dormer-window  the  first  Friday  in 
evei-y  month. 

On  the  summer's  evenin^js  w^e  had  been  used  to  see  it  towerino; 
aloft  between  us  and  the  setting  sun,  which  filled  the  great  room 
on  the  first  floor  with  light,  some  rays  of  which  came  through  into 
our  narrow  street.  Mother  had  actually  once  been  up  in  that 
room,  and  had  looked  out  of  the  window  westward,  and  seen  the 
trees  of  Chelsea  farm  (uoav  Cremorne  Gardens).  What  a  room 
that  would  be  to  play  in !  Joe  pegged  down  the  back -yard  and 
back  again  with  excitement,  when  he  thought  of  it.  We  were 
going  to  live  there,  and  father  was  going  to  let  all  the  upper  part 
in,  lodgings,  and  Cousin  lieuben 


THE  IIILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  11 


CHAPTER    III. 

JAMES  BURTON'S  STORY  :  COUSIN  REUBEN. 

And  Cousin  Reuben  had  applied  for  lodgings  from  the  very- 
moment  he  heard  of  our  move,  and  was  actually  coming  to  live  | 
with  us.  Was  this  as  satisfactory  as  all  the  rest  of  it?  Why,  no. 
And  that  is  why  I  made  that  pause  at  the  end  of  the  last  chapter. 
We  had  noticed  that  a  shade  had  passed  over  our  father's  face; 
and,  we  being  simple  and  affectionate  people,  that  shade  had  been 
reflected  on  ours,  though  we  hardly  knew  why. 

For  our  Cousin  Reuben  was  a  great  favorite  with  all  of  us.  He 
had  been  apprenticed  to  a  waterman,  but  had  won  his  coat  and 
freedom  a  few  mouths  before  this.  He  was  a  merry,  slangy, 
dapper  fellow,  about  seventeen,  always  to  be  found  at  street-cor- 
ners, with  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  talking  loud.  We  had  been 
very  proud  of  his  victory ;  it  was  the  talk  of  all  the  water- side ; 
he  rowed  in  such  perfect  form,  and  with  such  wonderful  rapidity. 
The  sporting  papers  took  him  up.  He  was  matched  at  some 
public-house  to  row  against  somebody  else  for  some  money.  He 
won  it,  but  there  was  a  dispute  about  it,  and  the  sporting  papers 
had  leading  articles  thereon.  But  the  more  famous  Reuben 
became,  the  more  my  father's  face  clouded  when  he  spoke  of 
him. 

That  birthday-night  I  was  sleepily  going  up  to  bed,  when  my 
father  stopped  me  by  saying,  "  Old  man,  you  and  me  must  have 
a  talk,"  whereupon  my  mother  departed.  "  Jim,"  said  he,  as  soon 
as  she  was  gone,  "  did  you  ever  hear  anything  about  your  cousin 
Reuben's  father  ?  " 

I  said  quickly,  "  No ;  but  I  had  often  thought  it  curious  that 
we  had  never  heard  anything  of  him." 

'•The  time  is  come,  my  boy,  when  you  must  know  as  much  as  I 
do.  It  is  a  bitter  thing  to  have  to  tell  you;  but  you  are  old 
enough  to  share  the  family  troubles."  And  I  heard  the  following 
story :  — 

Samuel  Burton  had  been  a  distant  cousin  of  my  father's.  When 
about  twelve  years  old,  he  had  ex[)ressed  a  wish  to  go  into  service, 
and  his  friends  had  got  for  him  a  place  as  page  or  steward-room 
boy,  in  the  family  of  an  opident  gentleman. 

At  the  time  of  his  goinii  there  the  heir  of  the  house  was  a  mere 
infant.  As  time  went  on,  his  father,  anxious  for  him  to  escape 
the  contaminations  of  a  pubUc  school,  sent  him  to  a  highly  ex- 


12  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

pensive  private  tutor ;  and  the  boy  selected  Samuel  Burton,  his 
favorite,  to  accompany  him  as  his  valet. 

Tiie  father  had  been  anxious  that  his  boy  should  escape  the 
contamination  of  a  public  school,  —  the  more  so,  because,  at  the 
age  of  thirteen,  he  was  a  very  difficult  and  somewhat  vicious  boy. 
The  father  took  the  greatest  care,  and  made  every  possible  in- 
quiry, The  Rev.  Mr.  Easy  was  a  man  of  high  classical  attain- 
ments, and  unblemished  character.  There  were  only  two  other 
pupils,  both  of  the  most  respectable  rank  in  life,  —  one,  the  son 
and  heir  of  Sir  James  Mottesfont;  the  other,  son  of  the  great 
city  man,  Mr.  Peters.  Nothing  could  be  more  satisfactory.  Alas  ! 
the  poor  father  in  avoiding  Charybdis  had  run  against  Scylla. 
In  avoiding  the  diluted  vice  of  a  public  school,  he  had  sent  his 
son  into  a  perfectly  undiluted  atmosphere  of  it.  Young  Mottes- 
font was  an  irreclaimable  vicious  idiot,  and  Peters  had  been  sent 
away  from  a  public  school  for  drunkenness.  In  four  years'  time 
our  young  gentleman  "  was  finished,"  and  was  sent  to  travel  with 
a  tutor,  keeping  his  old  servant,  Samuel  Burton  (who  had  learned 
something  also),  and  began  a  career  of  reckless  debauchery  of  all 
kinds.  After  two  years  he  was  angrily  recalled  by  his  father. 
Not  very  long  after  his  return  Samuel  Burton  married  (here  my 
father's  face  grew  darker  still).  Hitherto  his  character,  through 
all  his  master's  excesses,  had  been  most  blameless.  The  young 
gentleman's  father  had  conceived  a  great  respect  for  the  young 
man,  and  was  glad  that  his  wild  son  should  have  so  staid  and 
respectable  a  servant  willing  to  stay  with  him. 

A  year  after  Samuel  was  married  a  grand  crash  came.  The 
young  gentleman,  still  a  minor,  was  found  to  be  awfully  in  debt, 
to  have  been  raising  money  most  recklessly,  to  have  been  buying 
jewellery  and  selling  it  again.  His  creditors,  banding  themselves 
together,  refused  to  accept  the  plea  of  minority ;  two  of  their 
number  threatened  to  prosecute  for  swindling  if  their  claims  were 
not  settled  in  full.  An  arrangement  was  come  to  for  six  thou- 
sand pounds,  and  the  young  gentleman  was  allowanced  with  two 
hundred  a  year  and  sent  abroad. 

Samuel  Burton,  seeing  that  an  end  was  come  to  a  system  of 
plunder  which  he  had  carried  on  at  his  young  master's  expense, 
came  out  in  his  true  colors.  He  robbed  the  house  of  money  and 
valuables  to  the  amount  of  thirteen  hundred  pounds,  and  dis- 
appeared, —  utterly  and  entirely  disappeared,  —  leaving  his  wife 
and  child  to  the  mercy  of  my  father. 

This  was  my  father's  account  of  his  disappearance.  He  con- 
cealed from  me  the  fact  that  Samuel  Burton  had  been  arrested 
and  transported  for  fourteen  years. 

The  poor  mother  exerted  herself  as  well  as  she  was  able ;  but 
she  had  been  brought  up  soft-handed,  and  could  do  but  little. 


THE   niLLYARS  AND   THE  BURTONS.  13 

Wlicn  Reuben  was  about  ten  she  died ;  my  father  took  the  boy 
home,  and  ultimately  apprenticed  him  to  a  waterman. 

"  And  now,  my  boy,  you  see  why  I  am  anxious  about  Reuben's 
coming  to  live  with  us.  He  comes  of  bad  blood  on  both  sides ; 
and  his  fiither  is,  for  aught  I  know,  still  alive.  Reuben  ain't 
going  on  as  I  could  wish.  I  don't  say  anything  against  those  as 
row  races,  or  run  races,  or  ride  races ;  I  only  know  it  ain't  my 
way,  and  I  don't  want  it  to  be.  There  's  too  much  pot'us  about 
it  for  our  sort,  my  boy ;  so  you  see  I  don't  want  him  and  his  lot 
here  on  that  account.  And  then  he  is  a  dapper  little  chap ;  and 
our  Emma  is  very  pretty  and  sweet,  and  there  may  be  mischief 
there  again.  Still,  I  can't  refuse  him.  I  thought  I  was  doing  a 
kind  thing  to  a  fatherless  lad  in  calling  him  cousin,  but  I  almost 
wish  I  had  n't  now.  So  I  say  to  you,  keep  him  at  a  distance. 
Don't  let  him  get  too  intimate  in  our  part  of  the  house.  Good 
night,  old  man." 

"  Where  are  you  going  to  put  him,  father  ?  " 

"  As  far  oif  as  I  can,"  said  my  father.  "  In  the  big  room  at 
the  top  of  the  house." 

"  In  the  ghost's  room  ? "  said  I.  And  I  went  to  bed,  and 
dreamt  of  Reuben  being  woke  in  the  night  by  a  little  old  lady  in 
gray-shot  silk  and  black  mittens,  who  came  and  sat  on  his  bed 
and  knitted  at  him.  For,  when  my  mother  was  confined  with 
Fred,  Mrs.  Quickly  was  in  attendance,  and  told  us  of  such  an 
old  lady  in  the  attic  aloft  there,  and  had  confirmed  her  story  by 
an  appeal  to  Miss  Tearsheet,  then  in  seclusion,  in  consequence  of 
a  man  having  been  beaten  to  death  by  Mr.  Pistol  and  others. 
We  were  very  few  doors  from  Alsatia  in  those  times ! 


CHAPTER    lY. 

THE   COLONIAL   SECRETARY  SEES   SNAKES  AND   OTHER  VERMIN. 

It  was  a  hard  hit  in  a  tender  place  for  the  Colonial  Secretary. 
He  had  started  in  life  as  the  younger  son  of  a  Worcestershire 
squire,  and  had  fought  his  way,  inch  by  inch,  up  to  fame,  honor, 
and  wealth.  He  was  shrewd,  careful  enough  of  the  main  chance, 
and  very  ambitious;  but,  besides  this,  he  was  a  good-hearted, 
affectionate  fellow ;  and  one  of  his  objects  of  am])ition  had  l)een 
to  have  a  quiet  and  refined  home,  wherein  he  might  end  his  days 
in  honor,  presided  over  by  a  wife  who  was  in  every  way  worthy 
of  him.      Perhaps  he  had  been  too  much  engaged  in  money- 


14  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

making,  perhaps  he  had  plunged  too  fiercely  into  politics,  per- 
haps he  had  never  found  a  woman  who  exactly  suited  him ;  but 
so  it  was, — he  had  postponed  his  domestic  scheme  to  his  other 
schemes,  until  he  was  two-and-forty,  and  might  have  postponed 
it  longer,  had  he  not  met  Agnes  Neville,  at  a  geological  pic-nic, 
in  the  crater  of  Necnicabarla.  Here  was  everything  to  be 
wished  for :  beauty,  high  breeding,  sweet  temper,  and  the  high- 
est connection.  Four  of  her  beautiful  sisters  had  married  before 
her,  every  one  of  them  to  one  of  the  best-bred  and  richest 
squatters  in  that  wealthy  colony.  Mrs.  Morton  of  Jip  Jip ; 
Mrs.  Hill  of  Macandemdah ;  the  Honorable  Mrs.  Packenhara 
of  Langi  Cal  Cal ;  and  lastly,  the  beautiful  and  witty  Mrs.  Som- 
erton  of  Lai  Lai  and  Pywheitjork.*  He  fell  in  love  with  Miss 
Neville  at  once ;  their  marriage  was  delayed,  principally  on 
account  of  troublesome  political  reasons,  for  six  months,  and  in 
that  time  he  had  got  to  love,  like  a  brother,  her  little  sister, 
Gerty  Neville,  and  the  last  and  most  beautiful  of  the  six  beauti- 
ful sisters.  Even  before  he  was  married,  he  and  Agnes  had  laid 
out  all  sorts  of  plans  for  her  future  settlement.  He  had  even 
a  scheme  for  taking  her  to  Paris,  getting  her  properly  dressed 
there,  and  pitching  her  into  the  London  season,  under  the  aus- 
pices of  his  mother,  as  a  gauntlet  to  English  beauty. 

It  was  a  hard  hit  for  him.  He  had  always  been  so  especially 
hard  on  a  certain  kind  of  young  English  gentleman,  who  has 
sailed  too  close  to  the  wind  at  home,  and  who  comes  to  the 
colony  to  be  whitewashed.  He  had  fulminated  against  that  sort 
of  thing  so  strongly.  From  his  j)lace  in  the  House  he  had 
denounced  it  time  after  time.  That  his  colony,  his  own  colony, 
which  he  had  heljjed  to  make,  was  to  become  a  sewer  or  sink  for 
all  the  rubbish  of  the  Old  Country !  How  he  had  protested 
against  and  denounced  that  principle,  whether  applied  to  male  or 
female  emigrants ;  and  now  Gerty  was  proposing  to  marry  a 
man,  whom  he  was  very  much  inclined  to  quote  as  one  of  the 
most  offensive  examples  of  it. 

And  another  provoking  part  of  the  business  was,  that  he 
would  have  little  or  no  sympathy.  The  colony  would  say  that 
the  youngest  Miss  Neville  had  made  a  great  catch,  and  married 
better  than  any  of  her  sisters.  -  The  fellow  would  be  a  baronet 
with  £10,000  a  year.  There  was  a  certain  consolation  in  that, 
—  a  considerable  deal  of  consolation ;  if  it  had  not  been  that  the 
Secretary  loved  her,  that  might  have  made  him  tolerably  con- 
tented with  her  lot.  l>ut  he  loved  her ;  and  the  man,  were  he 
fifty  baronets,  was  a  low  fellow  of  loose  character ;  and  it  was 
very  hot;  and  so  the  Secretary  was  discontented. 

Very  hot.     The  tide  out,  leaving  a  band  of  burning  sand,  a 

*  One  would  not  dare  to  invent  these  names.    They  are  all  real. 


THE  IIILLYAnS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  15 

quarter  of  a  mile  broad,  between  sea  and  sbore.  Where  lie  liad 
striu'k  the  sea  first,  at  Wooriallock  Point,  the  current,  pourinj^ 
seaward  off  the  spit  of  sand,  had  knocked  up  a  trifling  suH", 
which  chafed  and  leaped  in  tiny  waves,  and  looked  crisp,  and  cool, 
and  aerated.  But,  now  he  was  in  the  lone  bif^ht  of  the  bay,  the 
sea  was  perfectly  smooth  and  oily,  deadly  silent  and  calm,  under 
the  blazing  sun.  The  water  did  not  break  upon  the  sand,  but 
only  now  and  then  sneaked  up  a  few  feet  with  a  lazy  whisper. 
Before  him,  for  twelve  miles  or  more,  were  the  long,  level 
yellow  sands,  without  one  single  break  as  far  as  the  eye  could 
reach ;  on  his  right  the  glassy  sea,  gleaming  under  the  back- 
ground of  a  heavy,  slow-sailing  thunder-cloud;  and  on  his  left 
the  low  wall  of  dark  evergreen  shrubs,  which  grew  densely  to 
the  looser  and  drier  sands  that  lay  piled  in  wind-heaps  beyond 
the  reach  of  the  surf. 

Once  his  horse  shied ;  it  was  at  -a  black  snake,  which  had 
crept  down  to  bathe,  and  which  raised  its  horrible  wicked  head 
from  out  its  coils  and  hissed  at  him  as  he  went  by.  Another 
time  he  heard  a  strange  rippling  noise,  coming  from  the  glassy, 
surfless  sea  on  his  right.  It  was  made  by  a  shark,  which,  com- 
ing swiftly,  to  all  appearance,  from  under  the  dark  thunder-cloud, 
headed  shoreward,  making  the  spray  fly  in  a  tiny  fountain  from 
his  back-fin,  w^hich  was  visible  above  the  surface.  As  he  came 
on,  the  smaller  fish,  snappers  and  such  like,  hurled  themselves 
out  of  water  in  hundreds,  making  the  sea  alive  for  one  instant ; 
but  after  that  the  shark,  and  the  invisible  fish  he  was  in  pursuit 
of,  sped  seaward  again  ;  the  ripple  they  had  made  died  out  on 
the  face  of  the  water,  and  the  water  in  the  bay  was  calm,  still, 
and  desolate  once  more. 

Intolerably  lonely.  He  pushed  his  horse  into  a  canter,  to 
make  a  breeze  for  himself  which  the  heavens  denied  him.  Still 
only  the  long  weary  stretch  of  sand,  the  sea  on  the  right,  and 
the  low  evergreens  on  the  left. 

But  now^  far,  far  ahead,  a  solitary  dot  upon  the  edge  of  the 
gleaming  water,  which,  as  the  good  horse  threw  the  ground  be- 
hind him,  grew  larger  and  larger.  Yes,  it  ivas  a  man  who  toiled 
steadily  on  in  the  same  direction  the  Secretary  was  going,  —  a 
man  who  had  his  trousers  off,  and  was  walking  bare-legged  on 
the  edge  of  the  sea  to  cool  his  feet ;  a  man  who  looked  round 
from  time  to  time,  as  if  to  see  who  was  the  horseman  behind  him. 

The  Secretary  reined  up  beside  him  with  a  cheery  "  Good 
day,"  and  the  man  respectfully  returned  the  salutation.  The 
Secretary  recognized  his  man  in  an  instant,  but  held  his  tongue. 

He  was  a  tall,  narrow-shouldered  man,  who  might  have  been 
forty  or  might  have  been  sixty ;  as  with  most  other  convicts,  his 
age  was  a  profound  mystery.     You  could  see  that  he  had  been 


16  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

originally  what  some  people,  hasty  observers,  would  call  a  good- 
looking  young  man,  and  was  even  now  what  those  same  hasty 
observers  would  call  a  good-looking  middle-aged  man.  His  hair 
was  gray,  and  he  had  that  wonderfully  clear  dark-brown  com- 
plexion which  one  sees  so  continually  among  old  convicts  who 
have  been  much  in  the  bush.  His  forehead  was  high  and  bald, 
and  his  nose  was  very  long,  delicate,  and  aquiline,  —  so  much  was 
in  his  favor ;  but  then,  —  why,  all  the  lower  part  of  his  face,  up- 
per lip,  mouth,  lower  lip  and  all,  ^vere  pinched  up  in  a  heap  under 
the  long  nose.  When  I  read  "  Little  Dorrit,"  I  was  pleased  to 
find  that  Mr.  Dickens  was  describing  in  the  person  of  M.  Rigaud 
one  of  our  commonest  types  of  convict  face,  but  Frenchified  aud 
wearing  a  mustache,  and  was  pleased  also  to  see  that,  with  his 
wonderfully  close  observation,  he  had  not  committed  the  mistake 
of  making  his  man  a  brave  and  violent  villain,  but  merely  a  cun- 
ning one. 

The  Secretary  looked  down  on  the  bald  head  and  the  Satanic 
eyebrows,  wdiich  ran  down  from  high  above  the  level  of  the  man's 
ears  and  nearly  met  above  his  great  transparent  hook-nose,  and 
said  to  himself,  "  Well,  you  are  a  more  ill-looking  scoundrel  than  I 
thought  you  the  other  day,  though  you  did  look  a  tolerable  rogue 
then." 

The  man  saw  that  the  Secretary  had  recognized  him,  and  the 
Secretary  saw  that  he  saw  it ;  but  they  both  ignored  the  fact.  It 
was  so  lonely  on  these  long  sands,  that  the  Secretary  looked  on 
this  particular  scoundrel  as  if  he  were  a  rather  interesting  book 
which  he  had  picked  up,  and  which  would  beguile  the  way. 

"  Hot  day,  my  man." 

"  Very  hot,  your  honor  ;  but  if  that  thunder-cloud  will  work  up 
to  us  from  the  west,  we  shall  have  the  south  wind  up  in  the  tail 
of  it,  as  cold  as  ice.  Your  honor  will  excuse  my  walking  like 
this.     I  looked  round  and  saw  you  had  no  ladies  with  you." 

Not  at  all  an  unpleasant  or  coarse  voice.  A  rather  pleasing 
voice,  belonging  to  a  person  who  had  mixed  with  well-bred  people 
at  some  time  or  another. 

"  By  Jove,"  said  the  Secretary,  "  don't  apologize  my  man.  I 
rather  envy  you.  But  look  out  lor  the  snakes.  I  have  seen  two 
on  the  edge  of  the  salt  water ;  you  must  be  careful  with  your  bare 
feet." 

"  I  saw  the  two  you  speak  of,  sir,  a  hundred  yards  off.  I  have 
a  singularly  quick  eye.  It  is  possible,  your  honor,  that  if  I  had 
been  transported  a  dozen  years  earlier  I  might  have  made  a  good 
bushman.  I  was  too  effeminately  bred  also,  Mr.  Secretary.  I 
was  spoilt  too  young  by  your  class,  IMr.  Secretary,  or  I  might 
have  developed  into  a  bolder  and  more  terrible  rogue  than  I  am." 

"  What  a  clever  dog  it  is ! "  thought  the  Secretary.     "  Know- 


THE  HILLY ARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  17 

mg  that  he  can't  take  me  in,  and  yet  trying  to  do  it  througli  a 
mere  instinct  of  deceit,  which  has  become  part  of  liis  natiin;. 
And  his  instinct  sho^Ys  him  that  this  careless  frankness  was  tlie 
most  likely  dodge  to  me,  who  know  everything,  and  more.  By 
gad,  it  is  a  wonderful  rogue ! " 

He  thought  tliis,  but  he  said :  "  Fiddlededee  about  terrible 
rogues.  You  are  clear  now ;  why  don't  you  mend  your  ways, 
man  ?     Confound  it,  why  don't  you  mend  your  ways  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to,"  said  the  other.  "  Not,  Mr.  Colonial  Secre- 
tary, because  I  am  a  bit  a  less  rogue  than  before,  but  because  it 
will  pay.     Catch  me  tripping  again,  Mr.  Oxton,  and  hang  me." 

"  I  say,"  said  the  Secretary ;  "  you  mus'  n't  commit  yourself, 
you  know." 

"  Commit  myself!"  said  the  man,  with  a  sneer;  "commit  my- 
self to  you!  Haven't  I  been  confidential  with  you?  Don't  I 
know  that  every  word  I  have  said  to  you  in  confidence  is  sacred? 
Don't  I  know  that  what  you  choose  to  call  your  honor  will  pre- 
vent your  using  one  word  of  any  private  conversation  against  me  ? 
Haven't  I  been  brought  up  among  such  as  you?  Haven't  I  been 
debauched  and  ruined  by  such  as  you?  Commit  myself!  I 
know  and  despise  your  class  too  well  to  commit  myself.  You 
dare  7iH  use  one  word  I  have  said  against  me.  Such  as  I  have 
the  pull  of  you  there.     You  dare  n't,  for  your  honor's  sake." 

And,  as  he  turned  his  angry  face  upon  the  Secretary,  he  looked 
so  much  more  fiendish  than  the  snake,  and  so  much  more  savage 
than  the  shark,  that  the  Secretary  rode  on,  saying,  "  Well,  my 
man,  I  am  sorry  I  said  anything  to  offend  you  " ;  and,  as  he  rode 
on,  leaving  the  solitary  figure  toiling  on  behind  him,  he  thought 
somewhat  like  this : 

"  Curious  cattle,  these  convicts  !  Even  the  most  refined  of 
them  get  at  times  defiant  and  insolent,  in  their  way.  What  a 
terrible  rogue  this  fellow  is !  He  saw  I  recognized  him  from  the 
first.  I  hate  a  convict  who  turns  Queen's  evidence.  I  wonder 
where  he  is  o;oino;.  I  wish  I  could  turn  him  over  the  border.  I 
hate  having  convicts  loose  in  my  little  colony.  It  is  an  infernal 
nuisance  being  so  close  to  a  penal  settlement ;  but  there  is  no 
help  for  it.  I  wonder  where  that  rogue  is  making  for ;  I  wish  he 
would  make  for  Sydney.     Where  can  he  be  going  ?  " 

One  cannot  help  wondering  what  the  Secretary  would  have 
said  had  he  known,  as  we  do,  that  this  desperate  rogue  was  bound 
on  exactly  the  same  errand  as  himself.  That  is  to  say,  to  fore- 
gather with  Mr.  George  Hillyar,  the  man  who  was  to  be  a  bar- 
onet, and  have  £10,000  a  year,  and  who,  God  help  us,  was  to 
marry  Gerty  Neville. 

"  Let  me  see,"  said  the  Secretary.  "  That  fellow's  real  name 
came  out  on  his  trial.     What  was  it  ?     Those  things  are  worth 

B 


18  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

remembering.  Samuel  Barker,  —  no,  it  was  n't  Barker,  because 
that's  the  name  of  the  Cape  Wilberforce  people.  Rippon,  that 
^Yas  the  name ;  no,  it  was  n't.  What  is  his  name  ?  Ah !  Rippon 
and — Rippon  and  Burton.  Ah!  for  the  man's  name  was  Samuel 
Burton." 


CHAPTER    V. 


JAMES  BURTON'S  STORY  :   THE  GHOST'S  ROOM  IS  INVADED,  AND 
JAMES  PUTS  HIS  FOOT   THROUGH   THE  FLOOR. 

In  due  time,  —  that  is  to  say,  a  fortnight  after  my  fifteenth 
birthday,  —  w^e  moved  into  the  new  house.  It  was  eight  o'clock 
on  a  bright  summer's  morning  when  my  father  got  the  key  from 
Mr.  Long,  unlocked  the  gate  in  the  broken  palings  which  sur- 
rounded the  house,  and  passed  into  the  yard,  surrounded  by  his 
whole  awe-stricken  family. 

There  was  no  discovery  made  in  the  yard.  It  was  common- 
place. A  square  flagged  space,  with  a  broken  water-butt  in  one 
corner  under  an  old-fashioned  leaden  gargoyle.  There  was  also 
a  grindstone,  and  some  odd  bits  of  timber  which  lay  about  near 
the  pump,  which  was  nearly  grown  up  with  nettles  and  rye- 
grass. In  front  of  me,  as  I  stood  in  the  yard,  the  great  house 
rose,  flushed  with  the  red  blaze  of  the  morning  sun ;  behind  were 
the  family,  —  Joe  leaning  on  his  crutch,  with  his  great  eyes  star- 
ing out  of  his  head  in  eager  curiosity;  after  him  the  group  of 
children,  clustered  round  Emma,  who  carried  in  her  arms  my 
brother  Fred,  a  large-headed  stolid  child  of  two,  wdio  was  chroni- 
cally black  and  blue  in  every  available  part  of  his  person  with 
accidents,  and  who  was,  even  now,  evidently  waiting  for  an  oppor- 
tunity to  distinguish  himself  in  that  line. 

Joe  had  not  long  before  made  acquaintance  with  kind  old  Mr. 
Fauli<;ner,  who  had  coached  him  up  in  antiquities  of  the  house ; 
and  Joe  iiad  told  me  everything.  We  boys  fully  expected  to  find 
Lord  Essex's  helmet  lying  on  the  stairs,  or  Queen  Elizabeth's 
glove  in  the  passage.  So  when  father  opened  the  great  panelled 
door,  and  went  into  the  dark  entry,  we  pushed  in  after  him, 
staring  in  all  directions,  expecting  to  see  something  or  another 
strange ;  in  which  we  were  disap{)ointed.  There  was  nothing 
more  strange  than  a  large  entrance-hall,  a  broad  staircase,  with 
large  balustrades,  somewhat  rickety  and  out  of  the  perpendicular, 
winding  up  one  side  of  it  to  the  floor  above,  and  a  large  mullioned 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  19 

window  half-way  up.  Our  first  difficulty  arose  from  Frank,  my 
youugest  brotlior  but  one,  declining  to  enter  the  house,  on  the 
grounds  that  Sliadrach  was  hiding  in  the  cellar.  This  difficulty 
being  overcome,  we  children,  leaving  father  and  mother  to  inspect 
the  ground-floor,  pushed  up  stairs  in  a  body  to  examine  the  de- 
lectable regions  above,  where  you  could  look  out  of  window,  over 
Shepherd's  nursery-ground,  and  see  the  real  trees  waving  in  the 
west. 

On  reaching  the  first  floor,  my  youngest  brother,  Fred,  so  to 
speak,  inaugurated,  or  opened  for  public  traffic,  the  staircase,  by 
falling  down  it  from  the  top  to  bottom,  and  being  picked  up  black 
in  the  face,  with  all  the  skin  off  his  elbows  and  knees.  Our  next 
hitch  was  with  Frank,  who  refused  to  go  any  further  because 
Abednego  was  in  the  cupboard.  Emma  had  to  sit  down  on  the 
landing,  and  explain  to  him  that  the  three  holy  children  were 
not,  as  Frank  had  erroneously  gathered  from  their  names,  ghosts 
who  caught  hold  of  your  legs  through  the  banisters  as  you  went 
up  stairs,  or  burst  suddenly  upon  you  out  of  closets  ;  but  respect- 
able men,  who  had  been  dead,  lawk-a-mercy,  ever  so  long.  Joe 
and  I  left  her,  combating,  somewhat  unsuccessfully,  a  theory  that 
Meshech  was  at  that  present  speaking  up  the  chimney,  and  would 
immediately  appear,  in  a  cloud  of  soot,  and  frighten  us  all  to 
death  ;  and  went  on  to  examine  the  house. 

And  really  we  went  on  with  something  like  awe  upon  us. 
There  was  no  doubt  that  we  were  treading  on  the  very  same 
boards  which  had  been  trodden,  often  enough,  by  the  statesmen 
and  dandies  of  Queen  Elizabeth's  Court,  and  most  certainly  by 
the  mighty  woman  herself.  Joe,  devourer  of  books,  had,  with 
Mr.  Faulkner's  assistance,  made  out  the  history  of  the  house; 
and  he  had  communicated  his  enthusiasm  even  to  me,  the  poor 
simple  blacksmith's  boy.  So  when  we,  too,  went  into  the  great 
room  on  the  first  floor,  even  I,  stupid  lad,  cast  my  eyes  eagerly 
around  to  see  whether  anything  remained  of  the  splendor  of  tho 
grand  old  court,  of  which  I  had  heard  from  Joe. 

Nothing.  Not  a  bit  of  furniture.  Three  broad  windows, 
which  looked  westward.  A  broad  extent  of  shaky  floor,  an  im- 
mense fire-place,  and  over  it  a  yellow  dingy  old  sampler,  under  a 
broken  glass,  hanging  all  on  one  side  on  a  rusty  nail. 

Joe  pounced  upon  this  at  once,  and  devoured  it.  "  Oh,  Jim ! 
Jim!"  he  said  to  me,  "just  look  at  this.  I  wonder  who  she 
was  "  ? 

"  There  's  her  name  to  it,  old  man,"  I  answered.  "  I  expect 
that  name's  hern,  ain't  it?  For,"  1  said  hesitatingly,  seeing  that 
Joe  was  excited  about  it,  and  feeling  that  I  ought  to  be  so  myself, 
though  not  knowing  why,  —  "  for,  old  man,  if  they  'd  forged  her 
name,  maybe  they  'd  have  done  it  in  imother  colored  worsted." 


20  THE    HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

This  bringing  forth  no  response,  I  felt  that  I  was  not  up  to  the 
occasion  ;  I  proceeded  to  say  that  worsteds  were  uncommon  hard 
to  match,  which  ask  our  Emma,  when  Joe  interrupted  me. 

"  I  don't  mean  that,  Jim.  I  mean,  what  was  her  history. 
Did  she  write  it  herself,  or  who  wrote  it  for  her  ?  What  a 
strange  voice  from  the  grave  it  is.  Age  eighteen  ;  date  1686; 
her  name  Alice  Hillyar.  And  then  underneath,  in  black,  one 
of  her  beautiful  sisters  has  worked,  '  She  dyed  3d  December, 
that  yeare.'  She  is  dead,  Jim,  many  a  weary  year  agone,  and 
she  did  this  when  she  was  eighteen  years  old.  If  one  could  only 
know  her  history,  eh?  She  was  a  lady.  Ladies  made  these 
common  samplers  in  those  times.  See,  here  is  Emma.  Emma, 
dear,  see  what  I  have  found.     Take  and  read  it  out  to  Jim." 

Emma,  standing  in  the  middle  of  the  deserted  room,  with  the 
morning  sunlight  on  her  face,  and  with  the  rosy  children  cluster- 
ing round  her,  read  it  out  to  us.  She,  so  young,  so  beautiful,  so 
tender  and  devoted,  stood  there,  and  read  out  to  us  the  words  of 
a  girl,  perhaps  as  good  and  as  devoted  as  she  was,  who  had  died 
a  hundred  and  fifty  years  before.  Even  I,  dull  boy  as  I  was, 
felt  there  was  something  strange  and  out-of-the-way  in  hearing 
the  living  girl  reading  aloud  the  words  of  the  girl  who  had  died 
so  long  ago.  I  thought  of  it  then  ;  I  thought  of  it  years  after, 
when  Joe  and  I  sat  watching  a  dim  blue  promontory  for  two 
white  sails  which  should  have  come  plunging  round  before  the 
full  south  wind. 

It  was  but  poor  doggrel  that  Emma  read  out  to  us.  First 
came  the  letters  of  the  alphabet ;  then  the  numbers ;  then  a 
house  and  some  fir-trees  ;  then :  — 

"  Weep  not,  sweet  friends,  my  early  doom. 
Lay  not  fresh  flowers  upon  my  tomb; 
But  elder  sour  and  brlony. 
And  yew  bough  broken  Vrom  the  tree 
My  sisters  kind  and  beautiful ! 
My  brothers  brave  and  dutiful! 
!My  mother  deare,  beat  not  thy  breast, 
Thy  hunchbacked  daughter  is  at  rest. 
See,  friends,  I  am  not  loath  to  go  ; 
My  Lord  will  take  me,  that  I  know." 

Poor  as  it  was,  it  pleased  Joe ;  and  as  I  had  a  profound  belief 
in  Joe's  good  taste,  I  was  jileased  also.  I  thought  it  somewliat 
in  the  tombstone  line  myself,  and  fell  into  the  mistake  of  suppos- 
ing that  one  was  to  admire  it  on  critical,  rather  than  on  senti- 
mental grounds.  Joe  hung  it  up  over  his  bed,  and  used  to  sit 
up  in  the  night  and  tell  me  stories  about  the  young  lady,  whom 
he  made  a  clothes-peg  on  which  he  hung  every  fancy  of  his  brain. 

He  took  his  yellow  sampler  to  kind  old  Mr.  Faulkner,  who 
told  him  that  our  new  house,  Church  Place,  had  been  the  fam- 
ily place  of  the  Hillyars  at  the  close  of  the  seventeenth  century. 


THE  lULLYAES  AND  T^IE  BURTONS.  21 

And  then  the  old  man  put  on  his  hat,  took  his  stick,  called  his 
big  dog,  and,  taking  Joe  by  the  hand,  led  liim  to  that  part  of  the 
old  churcli  burial-ground  which  lies  next  tiie  river ;  and  there  he 
showed  him  her  grave.  She  lay  in  tliat  fresh  breezy  corner 
which  overlooks  the  flashing  busy  river,  all  alone.  "  Alice  Kill- 
yar;  born  16G8,  died  1G8G."  Her  beautiful  sisters  lay  else- 
where, and  the  brave  brothers  also;  though,  by  a  beautiful 
fiction,  they  were  all  represented  on  the  family  tomb  in  the 
chancel,  kneeling  one  behind  the  other.  It  grew  to  be  a  favor- 
ite place  with  Joe,  this  grave  of  the  hunchbacked  girl,  wdiich 
overlooked  the  tide ;  and  Emma  would  sit  with  him  there  some- 
times. And  then  came  one  and  joined  them,  and  talked  soft  and 
low  to  Emma,  whose  foot  would  often  dally  with  the  letters  of 
his  own  surname  on  the  worn  old  stone. 

The  big  room  quite  came  up  to  our  expectations.  We  exam- 
ined all  the  other  rooms  on  the  same  floor ;  then  we  examined 
the  floor  above  ;  and,  lastly,  Joe  said  : 

"  Jim,  are  you  afraid  to  go  up  into  the  ghost's  room  ?  " 

"  N  —  no,"  I  said  ;  "  I  don't  mind  in  the  day  time." 

"  When  Rube  comes,"  said  Joe,  "  we  sha'n't  be  let  to  it ;  so 
now  or  never." 

We  went  up  Yery  silently.  The  door  was  ajar,  and  we  peeped 
in.  It  was  nearly  bare  and  empty,  with  only  a  little  nameless 
lumber  lying  in  one  corner.  It  was  high  for  an  attic,  in  conse- 
quence of  the  high  pitch  of  the  roof,  and  not  dark,  though  there 
was  but  one  window  to  it;  this  window  being  a  very  large 
dormer,  taking  up  nearly  half  the  narrow  end  of  the  room. 
The  ceiling  was,  of  course,  lean-to,  but  at  a  slighter  angle  to 
the  floor  than  is  usual. 

But  what  struck  us  immediately  was,  that  this  room,  long  as 
it  was,  did  not  take  up  the  whole  of  the  attic  story.  And,  look- 
ing towards  the  darker  end  of  the  room,  we  thought  we  could 
make  out  a  door.  We  were  afraid  to  go  near  it,  for  it  would  not 
have  been  very  pleasant  to  have  it  opened  suddenly,  and  for  a 
little  old  lady,  in  gray-shot  silk  and  black  mittens,  to  come  pop- 
ping out  on  you.  We,  how^ever,  treated  the  door  wdth  great  sus- 
picion, and  I  kept  watch  on  it  while  Joe  looked  out  of  window. 

When  it  came  to  my  turn  to  look  out  of  window,  Joe  kept 
watch.  I  looked  right  down  on  the  top  of  the  trees  in  the  Rec- 
tory garden  ;  beyond  the  Rectory  I  could  see  the  new  tavern, 
the  Cadogan  Arms,  and  away  to  the  northeast  St.  Luke's 
Church.  It  was  a  pleasant  thing  to  look,  as  it  were,  down  the 
chimneys  of  the  Black  Lion,  and  over  them  into  the  Rectory 
garden.  The  long  walk  of  pollard  limes,  the  giant  acacias,  and 
the  little  glimpse  of  the  lawn  between  the  boughs,  was  quite  a 
new  sight  to  me.     I  was  enjoying  the  view,  when  Joe  said :  — 


22  THE  HILLYAES  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  Can  you  see  the  Cadogan  Arms  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

'"  I  wonder  what  the  Earl  of  Essex  would  have  tlionght 
if  —  " 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  rustling  of  silk  in  the  dark  end 
of  the  room,  and  we  both,  as  the  Yankees  say,  "  up  stick  "  and 
bolted.  Even  in  my  terror  I  am  glad  to  remember  that  I  let 
Joe  go  first,  though  he  could  get  along  with  his  crutch  pretty 
nearly  as  fast  as  I  could.  We  got  down  stairs  as  quick  as  pos- 
sible, and  burst  in  on  the  family,  with  the  somewhat  premature 
intelligence,  that  we  had  turned  out  the  ghost,  and  that  she  was, 
at  that  present  moment,  coming  down  stairs  in  gray -shot  silk  and 
black  mittens. 

There  was  an  immediate  rush  of  the  younger  ones  towards 
my  mother  and  Emma,  about  whom  they  clustered  like  bees. 
Meanwhile  my  father  stepped  across  to  the  shop  for  a  trifle  of  a 
striking-hammer,  weight  eighteen  pounds,  and,  telling  me  to 
follow  him,  went  up  stairs.  I  obeyed,  in  the  first  place,  because 
his  word  was  law  to  me,  and,  in  the  second,  because  in  his  com- 
pany I  should  not  have  cared  one  halfpenny  for  a  whole  regi- 
ment of  old  ladies  in  gray  silk.  TYe  went  up  stairs  rapidly,  and  I 
followed  him  into  the  dark  part  of  the  room. 

We  were  right  in  supposing  that  we  had  seen  a  door.  There 
it  was,  hasped  —  or,  as  my  father  said,  hapsed  —  up  and  covered 
with  cobwebs.  After  two  or  three  blows  from  the  hammer,  it 
came  open,  and  we  went  in. 

The  room  we  entered  was  nearly  as  large  as  the  other,  but 
dark,  save  for  a  hole  in  the  roof.  In  one  corner  was  an  old 
tressel  bed,  and  at  its  head  a  tattered  curtain,  which  rustled  in 
the  wind,  and  accounted  for  our  late  panic.  I  was  just  begin- 
ning to  laugh  at  this,  when  I  gave  a  cry  of  terror,  for  my  right 
foot  had  gone  clean  through  the  boards. 

My  father  pulled  me  out  laughing  ;  but  I  had  hurt  my  knee, 
and  had  to  sit  down.  My  father  knelt  down  to  look  at  it ;  when 
he  had  done  so,  he  looked  at  the  hole  I  had  made. 

"  An  ugly  hole  in  the  boards,  old  man ;  we  must  tell  Rube 
about  it,  or  he  '11  break  his  leg,  may  be.  What  a  depth  there  is 
between  the  floor  and  the  ceiling  below!"  he  said,  feelins;  with 
his  hammer  ;  "  I  never  did,  sure/y." 

After  which  he  carried  me  down  stairs,  for  I  had  hurt  my  knee 
somewhat  severely,  and  did  not  get  to  work  for  a  week  or  more. 

When  father  made  his  appearance  among  the  family,  carrying 
me  in  his  arms,  there  was  a  .wild  cry  from  the  assembled  chil- 
dren. My  mother  requested  Emma  to  put  the  door-key  down 
her  back ;  and  then,  seeing  that  I  was  really  hurt,  said  that 
she  felt  rather  better,  and  that  Emma  need  n't. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  23 

Some  one  took  me  from  my  father,  and  said,  in  a  pleasant, 
clieery  voice,  — 

"  liallo  !  here 's  our  Jim  boon  a-trotting  on  the  loose  stones 
without  his  knee-caps.  liokl  up,  old  cliap,  and  do  n't  cry  ;  I  '11 
rim  round  to  the  infant-school  for  a  pitch-plaster,  and  call  at  the 
doctor's  shop  as  I  go  for  the  fire-engine.  That's  about  our 
little  game,  unless  you  think  it  necessary  for  me  to  order  a 
marvel  tomb  at  the  greengrocer's.  Not  a-going  to  die  this  bout? 
I  thought  as  much." 

I  laughed.  We  always  laughed  at  Reuben,  —  a  sort  of  small 
master  in  the  art  of  cockney  chaff ;  which  chaff  consisted  in  put- 
ting together  a  long  string  of  incongruities  in  a  smart,  jerky  tone 
of  voice.  This,  combined  with  consummate  impudence ;  a  code 
of  honor  which,  though  somewhat  peculiar,  is  rarely  violated ;  a 
reckless,  though  persistent,  courage ;  and,  generally  speaking,  a 
fine  physique,  are  those  better  qualities  of  the  Londoner  ("  cock- 
ney," as  those  call  him  who  don't  care  for  two  black  eyes,  et 
cetera)^  which  make  him,  in  rough  company,  more  respected  and 
"  let  alone "  than  any  other  class  of  man  with  whom  I  am 
acquainted.  The  worst  point  in  his  character,  the  point  which 
spoils  him,  is  his  distrust  for  high  motives.  His  horizon  is  too 
narrow.  You  cannot  get  him  on  any  terms  to  allow  the  exist- 
ence of  high  motives  in  others.  And,  where  he  himself  does 
noble  and  generous  things  (as  he  does  often  enough,  to  my 
knowledge),  he  hates  being  taxed  with  them,  and  invariably 
tries  to  palliate  them  by  imputing  low  motives  to  himself.  If 
one  wanted  to  be  fanciful,  one  would  say  that  the  descendant  of 
the  old  London  'prentice  had  inherited  his  grandsires'  distrust  for 
the  clergy  and  the  aristocracy,  who  were  to  the  city  folk,  not  so 
intimate  with  them  as  the  country  folk,  the  representatives  of 
lofty  profession  and  imperfect  practice.  However  this  may  be, 
your  Londoner's  chief  fault,  in  the  present  day,  is  his  distrust  of 
pretensions  to  religion  and  chivalrous  feeling.  He  can  be  chiv- 
alrous and  religious  at  times ;  but  you  must  hold  your  tongue 
about  it. 

Reuben  was  an  average  specimen  of  a  town-bred  lad  ;  he  had 
all  their  virtues  and  vices  in  petto.  He  was  a  gentle,  good- 
humored  little  fellow,  very  clever,  very  brave,  very  kind-hearted, 
very  handsome  in  a  way,  with  a  flat-sided  head  and  regular 
features.  The  fault  as  regarded  his  physical  beauty,  was,  that  he 
was  always  '•  making  faces,"  —  "  shaving,"  as  my  father  used  to 
call  it.  He  never  could  keep  his  mouth  still.  He  was  always 
biting  his  upper-lip  or  his  under-lip,  or  chewing  a  straw,  or  spit- 
ting in  an  unnecessary  manner.  If  he  could  have  set  that  mouth 
into  a  good  round  No,  on  one  or  two  occasions,  and  kept  it  so, 
it  would  have  been  better  for  all  of  us. 


24  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 


CHAPTER    VI. 

JAMES    BURTON'S    STORY  :    THE    PRELIMINARIES    TO    THE    MO- 
MENTOUS EXPEDITION   TO   STANLAKE. 

That  same  year  also,  Joe  and  I  made  a  new  acquaintance,  in 
this  manner:  — 

It  had  become  evident  to  me,  who  had  watched  Joe  so  long, 
that  his  lameness  was  to  some  slight  extent  on  the  mend.  I 
began  to  notice  that,  in  the  case  of  our  getting  into  a  fight  in  the 
street  (no  uncommon  case  among  the  Chelsea  street-children, 
even  in  this  improved  age,  as  I  am  given  to  understand),  and 
being  driven  to  retreat,  he  began  to  make  much  better  weather 
of  it.  I  was  pleased  to  find  this,  for  nothing  on  earth  could  have 
prevented  his  following  me  at  a  certain  distance  to  see  how  I  was 
getting  on.  The  first  time  I  noticed  a  decided  improvement  was 
this.  We  (Church  Street  —  Burtons,  Chittles,  Holmeses,  Agers, 
&c.)  were  at  hot  feud  with  Danvers  Street  on  the  west  side  of  us, 
and  Lawrence  Street  on  the  east.  Lawrence  Street  formed  a 
junction  with  Danvers  Street  by  Lombard  Street ;  and  so,  when 
we  went  across  the  end  of  the  sj^ace  now  called  Paulton  Square, 
we  came  suddenly  on  the  enemy,  three  to  one.  The  afiriir  was 
short,  but  decisive.  Everything  that  skill  and  valor  could  do 
was  done,  but  it  was  useless.  We  fled  silent  and  swift,  and  the 
enemy  followed,  howling.  When  round  the  first  corner,  to  my 
astonishment,  there  was  Joe,  in  the  thick  and  press  of  the  dis- 
ordered ranks,  Avith  his  crutch  over  his  shoulder,  getting  along  in 
a  strange  waddling  way,  but  at  a  most  respectable  pace.  The 
next  moment  my  fellow-apprentice  and  I  had  him  by  his  arms 
and  hurried  him  along  between  us,  until  the  pursuit  ceased,  the 
retreat  stopped,  and  we  were  in  safety. 

I  thought  a  great  deal  about  this  all  the  rest  of  the  day.  I 
began  to  see  that,  if  it  were  possible  to  strengthen  the  poor  lad's 
leg  by  gradual  abandonment  of  the  crutch,  a  much  brighter  future 
was  before  him.     I  determined  to  try. 

"  Joe,  old  fellow,"  I  said,  as  soon  as  we  were  in  bed,  "  have 
you  got  a  story  for  us  ?  " 

"  No,"  he  said,  "  I  have  n't.  I  am  thinking  of  something  else, 
Jim." 

^'Wliat  about?" 

"About  the  country.  The  country  is  here  within  three  miles 
of  us.     I  been  asking  Rube  about  it.     He  says  he  goes  miles  up 


THE  niLLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  25 

the  river  into  it  in  his  lighter.  Real  country,  you  knows, — stiles, 
and  foot-paths,  and  cows,  and  all  of  it.  You  and  me  has  never 
seen  it.     Lets  we  go." 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  wliat  's  the  good  ?  That  there  crutch  of  yourn 
(that 's  the  way  I  used  to  tiilk  in  tliose  old  times)  would  prevent 
you  getting  there  ;  and  when  you  get  there,  old  chap,  you  could  n't 
get  about.  And,  if  the  cows  was  to  run  after  you,  you  could  n't 
hook  it  over  the  gates  and  stiles,  and  such  as  you  talks  on.  There- 
fore I  ask  you.  What 's  the  good  ?  " 

"  But  the  cows,"  urged  Joe,  "  don't  alius  come  rampaging  at 
you,  end  on,  do  'em  ?  "  (That  is  the  way  our  orator  used  to 
speak  at  twelve  years  old.) 

"  Most  times  they  does,  I  reckon,"  I  replied,  and  turned  my- 
self over  to  sleep,  almost  afraid  that  I  had  already  said  too  much 
"  about  that  there  crutch  of  hisn."  I  had  become  aware  of  the 
fact  that  crutches  grew,  ready  made,  in  Shepherd's  nursery- 
ground,  in  rows,  like  gooseberry-trees,  and  was  on  the  eve  of 
some  fresh  discoveries  in  the  same  line,  when  Joe  awoke  me. 

''  Jim,"  he  said,  "  Rube's  barge  goes  up  on  the  tide  to-morrow 
morning  ;  let  us  see  whether  or  no  we  can  got  a  holiday  and  go  ?  " 

I  assented,  though  I  thought  it  doubtful  that  my  father  would 
give  us  leave.  A  month  or  so  before  he  would  have  refused  our 
request  point-blank.  Indeed,  I  should  not  have  taken  the  trouble 
to  ask  him,  but  I  had  noticed  that  he  had  softened  considerably 
towards  Reuben.  Reuben  was  so  gentle  and  affectionate,  and  so 
respectful  to  my  father  and  mother,  that  it  was  impossible  not  to 
yield  in  some  way  ;  and  so  Reuben  was  more  and  more  often 
asked  into  our  great  kitchen  on  the  ground-floor,  when  he  was 
heard  passing  at  night  up  to  his  solitary  chamber  in  the  roof. 

At  this  time  I  began  first  to  notice  his  singular  devotion  to  my 
sister  Emma,  —  a  devotion  which  surprised  me,  as  coming  from 
such  a  feather-headed  being  as  Reuben,  who  was  by  no  means 
addicted  to  the  softer  emotions.  I  saw  my  father  look  rather 
uneasily  at  them  sometimes,  but  his  face  soon  brightened  up 
again.  It  was  only  the  admiring  devotion  of  a  man  to  a  beauti- 
ful child.  Reuben  used  to  consult  her  on  every  possible  occasion, 
and  implicitly  follow  her  advice.  He  told  me  once  that,  if  you 
came  to  that,  Emma  had  more  head-piece  than  the  whole  lot  of 
us  put  together. 

My  father  gave  us  his  leave  ;  and  at  seven  o'clock,  on  the 
sweet  May  morning,  we  started  on  our  first  fairy  voyage  up  the 
river,  in  a  barge  full  of  gravel,  navigated  by  the  drunken  one- 
eyed  old  man  who  had  been  Rube's  master.  It  was  on  the  whole 
the  most  perfectly  delightful  voyage  I  ever  took.  There  is  no 
craft  in  the  world  so  comfortable  as  a  coal  barge.  It  has  abso- 
lutely no  motion  whatever  about  it ;  you  glide  on  so  imperceptibly 
2 


26  THE  HILLYAKS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

that  the  banks  seem  moving,  and  you  seem  still.  Objects  grow 
slowly  on  the  eye,  and  then  slowly  fade  again  ;  and  tliey  say, 
"We  have  passed  so  and  so,"  when  aH  the  time  it  would  seem 
more  natural  to  say,  "  So  and  so  has  passed  us." 

This  was  the  first  voyage  Joe  and  1  ever  took  together.  AVe 
have  made  many  voyages  and  journeys  since,  and  have  never 
found  the  way  long  while  we  were  together ;  we  shall  have  to 
make  the  last  journey  of  all  separate,  but  we  shall  meet  again  at 
the  end  of  it. 

O,  glorious  and  memorable  May-day !  New  wonders  and 
pleasures  at  every  turn.  The  river  swept  on  smoothly  without 
a  rip})le,  past  the  trim  villa  lawns,  all  ablaze  with  flowers ;  and 
sometimes  under  tall  dark  trees,  which  bent  down  into  the  water, 
and  left  no  shore.  Joe  was  in  a  frantic  state  of  anxiety  to  know 
all  the  different  kinds  of  trees  by  sight,  as  he  did  by  name. 
Reuben,  the  good-natured,  was  nearly  as  pleased  as  ourselves, 
and  at  last  "  finished  "  Joe  by  pointing  out  to  him  a  tulip-tree  in 
full  bloom.  Joe  was  silent  after  this.  He  kept  recurring  to 
this  tulip-tree  all  the  rest  of  the  day  at  intervals  ;  and  the  last 
words  I  heard  that  night,  on  dropping  to  sleep,  were,  "  But  after 
all  there  was  nothing  like  the  tulip-tree." 

In  one  long  reach,  I  remember,  we  heard  something  coming 
towards  us  on  the  water,  with  a  measured  rushing  noise,  very 
swiftly  ;  and  before  we  could  say.  What  was  it  ?  it  was  by  us, 
and  gone  far  away.  We  had  a  glimpse  of  a  brown  thin-faced 
man,  seated  in  a  tiny  outrigger,  which  creaked  beneath  the  pres- 
sure of  each  mighty  stroke,  skimming  over  the  water  like  a  swal- 
low, with  easy  undulations,  so  fast  that  the  few  swift  runners  on 
the  bank  were  running  their  hardest.  "  Robert  Coombes  train- 
ing," said  Reuben,  with  bated  breath ;  and  we  looked  after  the 
flying  figure  w^ith  awe  and  admiratron,  long  after  it  was  gone 
round  the  bend,  and  the  gleaming  ripples  which  he  had  made 
upon  the  oily  river  had  died  into  stillness  once  more. 

I  hardly  remember,  to  tell  the  truth,  how  far  we  went  up  with 
that  tide ;  I  think,  as  far  as  Kew.  When  the  kedge  was 
dropped,  we  all  got  into  a  boat,  and  went  ashore  to  a  public 
house.  I  remember  perfectly  well  that  I  modestly  asked  the 
one-eyed  old  man,  lately  Rube's  master,  whether  he  would  be 
pleased  to  take  anything.  He  was  pleased  to  put  a  name  to  gin 
and  cloves,  which  he  drank  in  our  presence,  to  Joe's  intense  in- 
terest, who  leant  on  his  crutch,  and  stared  at  him  intently  with 
his  great  prominent  eyes.  Joe  had  heard  of  the  old  man's  ex- 
traordinary performances  when  in  liquor,  and  he  evidently 
expected  this  particular  dram  to  produce  immediate  and  visible 
effects.  He  was  disappointed.  The  old  man  assaulted  nobody 
(he  probably  missed  his  wife),  ordered  another  dram,  wiped  his 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  27 

moutli  on  the  back  of  his  hand,  swore  an  ingenious  oath  perfectly 
new  to  tlie  whole  of  his  aiulieuce,  lit  his  pipe,  and  sat  down  on  a 
bench  fronting  the  river. 

Then,  after  a  most  affeotionate  farewell  with  Renl)en,  we  turned 
to  wall^  homewards,  —  Joe  walking  stoutly  and  bravely  witli  his 
crutch  over  his  shoulder.  "We  enjoyed  ourselves  more  on  shore 
than  on  the  river,  for  Joe  said  that  there  were  wild  tulips  on  Kew 
Green,  and  wanted  to  find  some.*  So  we  hunted  for  them,  but 
without  success.  The  tulip-tree  at  Fulham  had  given  me  incor- 
rect ideas,  and  I  steadily  looked  up  into  the  limes  and  horse- 
chestnuts  for  them.  Then  we  pushed  on  again,  and  at  the 
turnpike  on  Barnes  Common  we  took  our  first  refreshment 
that  day.  We  had  some  bread  and  treacle  in  a  cotton  pocket- 
handkerchief,  and  we  bought  two  bottles  of  ginger-beer ;  and, 
for  the  first  time  in  our  lives,  we  "  pic-nic'd."  We  sat  on  the 
short  turf  together,  and  ate  our  bread  and  treacle,  and  drank  our 
ginger-beer. 

Last  year,  when  Joe  and  I  came  over  to  the  Exhibition  as 
Commissioners,  we,  as  part  of  our  duty,  were  invited  to  dine  with 
one  of  the  very  greatest  men  in  England.  I  sat  between  Mrs. 
Oxton  and  a  Marchioness.  And  during  dinner,  in  a  low  tone  of 
voice,  I  told  Mrs.  Oxton  this  story  about  the  bread  and  treacle, 
and  the  ginger-beer.  And,  to  my  surprise,  and  rather  to  my 
horror,  as  I  must  confess,  Mrs.  Oxton,  speaking  across  me,  told 
the  whole  story  over  again  to  the  Marchioness,  of  whom  I  was 
in  mortal  terror.  But,  after  this,  nothing  could  be  more  genial 
and  kind  to  me  than  was  that  terrible  Marchioness ;  and  in  the 
drawing-room,  I  saw  her,  with  my  own  eyes,  go  and  tell  the 
whole  horrid  truth  to  her  husband,  the  Marquis.  Whereupon 
he  came  over  at  once,  and  made  much  of  me,  in  a  corner.  Their 
names,  as  I  got  them  from  Mrs.  Oxton,  were  Lord  and  Lady 
Hainault. 

Then  we  (on  Putney  Common  twenty  years  ago)  lay  back 
and  looked  at  the  floating  clouds,  and  Joe  said,  "  Eeuben  is  go- 
ing to  marry  our  Emma,  and  I  am  glad  of  it." 

""  But  he  mus'n't,"  I  said ;  "  it  won't  do." 

"  Why  not  "  ? 

"  Father  won't  hear  on  it,  I  tell  you.  Rube  ain't  going  on 
well." 

"  Yes,  he  is  now,"  said  Joe,  "  since  he 's  been  seeing  so  much 
of  Emma.  Don't  you  notice,  Jim  ?  He  has  n't  sworn  a  oath 
to-day.  He  has  cut  all  that  Cheyue  Walk  gang.  I  tell  you  she 
will  make  a  man  of  him." 

*  Joe  was,  to  a  certain  extent,  right.  The  common  Fritillaria  did  grow  there 
—  fifty  years  before  Joe  was  born.  He  had  seen  tiie  locality  quoted  in  some  old 
botany-book. 


28  THE  HILLYAKS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  I  tell  you,"  I  said,  "  father  won't  liear  tell  on  it.  Besides, 
she 's  only  fourteen.  And,  also,  who  is  fit  to  marry  Emma  ? 
Go  along  with  you." 

And  so  we  went  along  with  us.  And  our  first  happy  holiday 
came  to  an  end  by  my  falling  asleep  dog-tired  at  sup})er,  with  my 
head  in  my  father's  lap ;  while  Joe,  broad-awake,  and  liighly  ex- 
cited, was  telling  them  all  about  the  tulip-tree.  I  was  awakened 
by  the  screams  incident  to  Fred  having  fallen  triumphantly  into 
the  fire,  off  his  chair,  and  having  to  be  put  out,  —  which  being 
done,  we  went  to  bed. 

After  this  first  effort  of  ours,  you  might  as  well  have  tried  to 
keep  two  stormy  petrels  at  home  in  a  gale  of  wind,  as  to  keep 
Joe  and  me  from  rambling.  My  fiither  "  declined  "  —  I  can 
hardly  use  such  a  strong  word  as  "  refuse  "  about  him  —  any 
more  holidays  ;  but  he  compromised  the  matter  by  allowing  us 
to  go  an  expedition  into  the  country  on  Sunday  afternoon,  — 
providing  always  that  we  went  to  church  in  the  morning  with 
the  rest  of  the  family,  —  to  which  we  submitted,  though  it  cost 
us  a  deal  in  omnibuses. 

And  now  I  find  that,  before  I  can  tell  you  the  story  of  our  new 
acquaintance  in  an  artistic  manner,  I  shall  have  to  tell  you  what 
became  of  that  old  acquaintance  of  ours,  —  Joe's  crutch ;  be- 
cause, if  we  had  not  got  rid  of  the  one,  we  never  should  have 
made  acquaintance  with  the  other. 

On  every  expedition  we  made  into  the  country,  Joe  used  his 
crutch  less  and  less.  I  mean,  used  it  less  in  a  legitimate  man- 
ner ;  though,  indeed,  we  missed  it  in  the  end,  as  one  does  miss 
things  one  has  got  used  to.  He  used  it  certainly  to  the  last.  I 
have  known  him  dig  out  a  mole  with  it ;  I  have  known  him  suc- 
cessfully defend  himself  against  a  dog  with  it  in  a  farmyard  at 
Roehampton ;  I  have  seen  it  flying  up,  time  after  time,  into  a 
horse-chestnut-tree,  (we  tried  them  roasted  and  boiled,  with  salt 
and  without,  but  it  would  n't  do,)  until  it  lodged,  and  we  wasted 
the  whole  Sabbath  afternoon  in  pelting  it  down  again.  Latterly, 
I  saw  Joe  do  every  sort  and  kind  of  thing  with  that  crutch,  ex- 
cept one.  He  never  used  it  to  walk  with.  Once  he  broke  it 
short  in  two  getting  over  a  stile ;  and  my  father  sent  it  to  the 
umbrella-mender's  and  had  it  put  together  at  a  vast  expense 
with  a  ferrule,  and  kept  Joe  from  school  till  it  was  done.  I  saw 
that  the  thing  was  useless  long  before  the  rest  of  the  family. 
But,  at  last,  the  end  of  it  came,  and  the  old  familiar  sound  of 
it  was  heard  no  more. 

One  Sunday  afternoon  we  got  away  as  far  as  Penge  Wood, 
where  the  Crystal  Palace  now  stands  ;  and  in  a  field,  between 
that  and  Norwood,  we  found  mushrooms,  and  filled  a  handker- 
chief with  them.     When  we  w^ere  coming  home  through  Batter- 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  29 

sea,  we  sat  down  on  a  bank  to  see  if  any  of  them  were  broken  ; 
after  which  we  got  up  and  walked  home  again.  And  then  and 
there  Joe  forgot  his  crutch,  and  left  it  behind  him  on  the  bank, 
and  we  never  saw  it  any  more,  but  walked  home  very  fast  for 
fear  we  should  be  late  for  supper.  That  was  the  last  of  the 
crutch,  unless  the  one  Joe  saw  in  the  marine  storekeeper's  in 
Battersea  was  the  same  one,  which  you  may  believe  or  not  as 
you  like.  iVll  I  know  is,  that  he  never  got  a  new  one,  and  has 
not  done  so  to  this  day. 

We  burst  in  with  our  mushrooms.  Father  and  mother  had 
waited  for  us,  and  were  gone  to  bed ;  Emma  was  sitting  up  for 
us,  with  Harry  (of  whom  you  will  know  more)  on  her  knee  ; 
and,  as  Joe  came  towards  her,  she  turned  her  sweet  face  on  me, 
and  said,  "  Why,  where  is  Joe's  crutch  ?  " 

"  It 's  two  miles  off,  sweetheart,"  I  said.  "  He  has  come  home 
without  it.     He  '11  never  want  no  crutch  this  side  of  the  grave." 

I  saw  her  great  soul  rush  into  her  eyes  as  she  turned  them  on 
me  ;  and  then,  with  that  strange  way  she  had,  when  anything 
happened,  of  looking  out  for  some  one  to  praise,  instead  of,  as 
many  women  do,  looking  out  for  some  one  to  blame  and  fall  foul 
of,  she  said  to  me,  — 

"This  is  your  doing,  my  own  brother.  May  God  bless  you 
for  it." 

She  came  up  to  bed  with  Harry,  after  us.  As  soon  as  she  had 
put  him  to  bed  in  the  next  room,  I  heard  him  awake  Frank,  his 
bedfellow,  and  tell  him  that  Jesus  had  cured  our  Joe  of  his 
lameness. 

Now,  having  got  rid  of  Joe's  crutch,  we  began  to  go  further 
afield.  Our  country  rambles  were  a  great  and  acknowledged 
success.  Joe,  though  terribly  deformed  in  the  body,  was  grow- 
ing handsome  and  ttrong.  What  is  more,  Joe  developed  a  qual- 
ity, which  even  I  should  hardly  have  expected  him  to  possess. 
Joe  was  got  into  a  corner  one  day  by  a  Dan  vers  Street  bully,  and 
he  there  and  then  thrashed  that  bully.  Reuben  saw  it,  and  would 
have  interfered,  had  he  not  seen  that  Joe,  with  his  gigantically 
long  arms,  had  it  all  his  own  way ;  and  so  he  left  well  alone. 

We  began  to  further  afield,  —  sometimes  going  out  on  an 
omnibus,  and  walking  home ;  sometimes  walking  all  the  way ; 
Joe  bringing  his  book-learning  on  natural  objects  to  bear,  and  re- 
cognizing things  which  he  had  never  seen  before.  Something 
new  was  discovered  in  this  manner  every  day ;  and  one  day,  in 
a  lonely  pond  beyond  Clnpham,  we  saw  three  or  four  white 
flowers  floating  on  the  surface. 

'•  Those,"  said  Joe,  "  must  be  white  water-lilies.  I  would  give 
anything  for  one  of  them." 

In  those  days,  before  the  river  had  got  into  its  present  filthy 


so  THE  niLLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

condition,  —  in  the  times  when  jou.  could  catch  a  punt  full  of 
roach  at  Battersea  Bridge,  in  the  turn  of  a  tide,  —  nearly  every 
Chelsea  boy  could  swim. 

I  very  soon  had  my  clothes  off,  and  the  lilies  w^ere  carried 
home  in  triumph. 

"  Ah,  mother ! "  said  my  flither,  "  do  you  remember  the  lilies 
at  Stanlake?" 

"  Ah,  father  !  "  said  my  mother. 

"  Acres  on  'em,"  said  my  father,  looking  round  radiantly ;  "  hun- 
dreds on  'em.  Yallah  ones  as  well.  Waterfalls,  and  chaney 
boys  being  poorly  into  cockle-shells,  and  marvel  figures  dancing 
as  naked  as  they  was  born,  and  blowing  tunes  on  whilk-shells, 
and  winkles,  and  such  like.     Eh,  mother ! " 

Mother  began  to  cry. 

"  There,  God  bless  me ! "  said  my  father ;  "  I  am  a  stupid  brute 
if  ever  there  were  one.  Mother,  old  girl,  it  were  so  many  years 
agone.     Come,  now ;  it 's  all  past  and  gone,  dear." 

Fred,  at  this  moment,  seeing  his  mother  in  tears,  broke  out  in 
a  stentorian,  but  perfectly  tearless,  roar,  and  cast  his  bread  and 
butter  to  the  four  winds.  Emma  had  to  take  him  and  walk  up 
and  down  with  him,  patting  him  on  the  back,  and  singing  to  him 
in  her  soft  cooing  voice. 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  room-door  just  when  she  was  oppo- 
site it,  —  she  opened  it,  and  there  was  Reuben ;  and  I  saw  my 
father  and  mother  look  suddenly  at  one  another. 

"  May  I  come  in,  cousin .'' "  he  said  to  my  mother,  in  his  pleas- 
ant voice.  "  Come,  let 's  have  a  game  with  the  kids  before  I  go 
up  and  sleep  with  the  ghost." 

"  You  're  welcome,  Rube,  my  boy,"  said  my  father ;  "  and 
you  're  welcomer  every  day.  We  miss  you.  Rube,  when  you 
don't  come ;  consequently,  you  're  welcome  when  you  do,  which 
is  in  reason.  Therefore,"  said  my  father,  pursuing  his  argument, 
"  There  's  the  place  by  the  fire,  and  there  's  your  backer,  and 
there  's  the  kids.  So,  if  mother's  eyes  is  red,  it 's  w^ith  naught 
you  've  done,  old  boy.  Leave  alone,"  I  heard  my  father  growl 
to  himself  (for  I,  as  usual,  was  sitting  next  him)  ;  "is  the  sins  of 
the  fathers  to  be  visited  on  the  tables  of  kindred  and  affinity  ? 
No.  In  consequence,  leave  alone,  I  tell  you.  He  did  n't,  any 
how.     And  there  was  worse  than  his  father,  —  now  then." 

In  a  very  short  time  we  were  all  comfortable  and  merry,  Reu- 
ben making  the  most  atrocious  riot  with  the  "  kids,"  my  younger 
brotliers.  But  I  saw  that  Joe  was  distraught ;  and,  with  that  pro- 
found sagacity  which  has  raised  me  to  my  present  eminence,  I 
guessed  that  he  was  planning  to  go  to  Stanlake  the  very  next 
Sunday. 

The  moment  we  were  in  bed,  I  saw  how  profoundly  wise  I  was. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  31 

Joe  broke  out.  He  must  see  tlie  "  yallali "  water-lilies ;  the 
chaney  boys  and  the  marvel  figures  were  nothing ;  it  was  the 
yallah  lilies.  I,  who  had  noticed  more  closely  than  he  ray  mother's 
behavior  when  the  place  was  mentioned,  and  the  look  she  gave 
my  father  when  Rube  came  in,  had  a  sort  of  fear  of  going  there, 
but  Joe  pleaded  and  pleaded  until  I  was  beaten ;  at  last,  I  hap- 
pily remembered  that  we  did  not  know  in  which  of  the  fifty-two 
counties  of  England  Stanlake  was  situated.  I  mentioned  this 
little  fact  to  Joe.  He  suggested  that  I  should  ask  my  father.  I 
declined  doing  anything  of  the  sort ;  and  so  the  matter  ended  for 
tlie  night. 

But  Joe  was  not  to  be  beaten.  He  came  home  later  than 
usual  from  afternoon  school  next  day.  The  moment  we  were 
alone  together,  he  told  me  that  he  had  been  to  see  Mr.  Faulkner. 
That  he  had  asked  him  where  Stanlake  was ;  and  that  the  old 
gentleman,  —  who  knew  every  house  and  its  history,  within 
twenty  miles  of  London,  —  had  told  him  that  it  was  three  miles 
from  Croydon,  and  was  the  seat  of  Sir  George  Hillyar. 


CHAPTER    VII. 

THE  BATTLE   OF   BAEKER"S   GAP. 

The  Secretary  rode  steadily  on  across  the  broad  sands  by  the 
silent  sea,  thinking  jf  Gerty  Neville,  of  how  hot  it  was,  of 
George  Hillyar,  of  t  .le  convict  he  had  left  behind,  of  all  sorts  of 
things,  until  Cape  ^Vilberforce  was  so  near  that  it  changed  from 
a  dull  blue  to  a  light  brown,  with  gleams  of  green ;  and  was  no 
more  a  thing  of  air,  but  a  real  promontory,  with  broad  hanging 
lawns  of  heath,  and  deep  shadowed  recesses  among  the  cliffs. 
Then  he  knew  that  the  forty-mile  beach  was  nearly  past,  and  that 
he  was  within  ten  miles  of  his  journey's  end  and  dinner.  He 
whistled  a  tune,  and  began  looking  at  the  low  wall  of  evergreen 
shrubs  to  his  ri";ht. 

At  last,  dray-tracks  in  the  sand,  and  a  road  leading  up  from 
the  shore  through  the  tea-scrub,  into  which  he  passed  inland. 
Hotter  than  ever  here.  Piles  of  drifted  sand,  scored  over  in 
every  direction  with  the  tracks  of  lizards  of  every  sort  and  size  ; 
some  of  which  slid  away,  with  a  muscular  kind  of  waddle,  into 
dark  places  ;  while  others,  refusing  to  move,  opened  their  mouths 
at  him,  or  let  down  bags  under  their  chins,  to  frighten  him.  A 
weird  sort  of  a  place  this,  very  snaky  in  appearance ;  not  by  any 


32  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

means  the  sort  of  place  to  lie  down  and  go  to  sleep  in  on  a  hot 
night  in  March  or  Septeml:)er,  when  the  wicked  devils  are  abroad 
at  night.  Did  any  one  of  my  readers  ever  lie  down,  dog-tired, 
on  Kanonook  Island,  and  hear  the  wretches  sliding  through  the 
sand  all  night,  with  every  now  and  then  a  subdued  '•  Hish,  hish, 
hish?"  As  the  American  gentleman  says  in  "Martin  Chuzzle- 
"wit,"  "  Darn  all  manner  of  vermin  !  " 

At  nightfall,  he  came  to  a  little  cattle-station,  where  he  slept 
It  was  owned  by  a  little  gray-headed  Irish  gentleman,  who  played 
the  bassoon,  and  who  had  not  one  grievance,  but  fifty ;  who  had 
been  an  ill-used  man  ever  since  he  Avas  born,  —  nay,  even  like 
Tristram  Shandy,  before.  He  had  been  unfortunate,  had  this 
Irish  gentleman,  in  love,  in  literature,  in  commerce,  and  in  poli- 
tics ;  in  his  domestic  relations,  in  his  digestion ;  in  Ireland,  in 
India,  in  the  Cape,  and  in  New  Zealand ;  still  more  unfortunate, 
according  to  his  own  showing,  in  Cooksland.  He  told  all  his 
grievances  to  the  Secretary,  proving  clearly,  as  unsuccessful 
Irish  gentlemen  always  can  do,  that  it  was  not  his  own  fault,  but 
that  thino^s  in  oreneral  had  combined  against  him.  Then  he  asked 
for  a  place  in  the  Customs  for  his  second  son.  Lastly,  he  essayed 
to  give  him  a  tune  on  his  bassoon ;  but  the  mason-flies  had  built 
their  nests  in  it,  and  he  had  to  clean  them  out  with  the  worm- 
end  of  a  ramrod ;  and  so  there  was  anot  \er  grievance,  as  bad 
as  any  of  the  others.  The  Secretary  had  to  go  to  bed  without 
his  music,  and,  indeed,  had  been  above  an  hour  asleep  before  the 
Irish  gentleman  succeeded  in  clearing  the  instrument.  Then, 
after  several  trials,  he  managed  to  get  a  good  bray  out  of  it,  got 
out  his  music-books,  and  set  to  work  in  good  earnest,  within  four 
feet  of  the  Secretary's  head,  and  nothing  bu*:  a  thin  board  between 
them. 

The  country  mended  as  he  passed  inland.  He  crossed  a  broad 
half-salt  creek,  within  a  hundred  yards  of  the  shore,  where  the 
great  bream  basked  in  dozens ;  and  then  he  was  among  stunted 
gum-trees,  looking  not  so  very  much  unlike  oaks,  and  deep 
braken  fern.  After  this  he  came  to  a  broad  j^lain  of  yellow 
grass,  which  rolled  up  and  up  before  him  into  a  down  ;  and,  when 
he  came,  after  a  dozen  miles,  to  the  top  of  this,  he  looked  into 
a  broad  bare  valley,  through  which  wound  a  large  creek,  fringed 
by  a  few  tall  white-stemmed  trees,  of  great  girtii. 

Beneath  him  were  three  long,  low  gray  buildings  of  wood, 
placed  so  as  to  form  three  sides  of  a  square,  fronting  the  creek ; 
and  behind,  stretching  up  the  other  side  of  the  valley,  was  a  large 
paddock,  containing  seven  or  eight  fin(^  horses.  Tills  was  the 
police-station,  at  which  Lieutenant  Ilillyar  had  been  quartered 
for  some  time,  —  partly,  it  was  said,  in  punishment  for  some 
escapade,   and   partly  because   two   desperate  esca^jed  convicts 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  33 

fi'om  Van  Diemen's  Land  were  suspected  to  be  in  the  neiglibor- 
hood.  Here  Georo;e  llillyar  had  been  thrown  into  the  society 
of  the  Barkers,  at  whose  house  he  had  met  Gerty  Neville. 

The  Secretary  reined  his  horse  up  in  the  centre  of  the  little 
quadranirle,  and  roared  out,  Hallo !  Whereupon  a  horse  neighed 
in  the  paddock,  but  no  other  ellect  was  produced. 

He  then  tried  a  loud  Cooe !  This  time  the  cat  jumped  up 
from  where  she  lay  in  the  sun,  and  ran  indoors,  and  the  horses 
in  the  paddock  began  galloping. 

"  Hallo  !  Hi !  Here  !  Stable  guard  !  Where  the  dense  have 
you  all  got  to  ?     Hallo  !  " 

It  was  evident  that  there  was  not  a  soul  about  the  place.  The 
Secretary  was  very  angry.  "  I  '11  report  him  ;  as  sure  as  he  's 
born,  I  '11  report  him.  It  is  too  bad.  It  is  beyond  anything  I 
ever  heard  of,  —  to  leave  his  station  without  a  single  man." 

The  Secretary  got  off  his  horse,  and  entered  the  principal  room. 
He  looked  round  in  astonishment,  and  gave  a  long  whistle.  His 
bushman's  eye  told  him,  in  one  instant,  that  there  had  been  an 
alarm  or  emergency  of  some  kmd,  immediately  after  daybreak, 
while  the  men  were  still  in  bed.  The  mattresses  and  clothes 
were  not  rolled  neatly  up  as  usual,  but  the  blankets  were  lying 
in  confusion,  just  as  the  men  had  left  them,  when  they  had  jumped 
out  to  dress.  The  carbines  and  swords  were  gone  from  the  rack. 
He  ran  hurriedly  out,  and  swung  himself  on  to  his  horse,  exclaim- 
ing, just  as  he  would  have  done  four-and-twenty  years  before  at 
Harrow, 

"  Well !     Here  is  a  jolly  row." 

It  was  a  bare  mile  to  the  Barkers'  Station.  In  a  few  minutes 
he  came  thundering  into  their  courtyard,  and  saw  a  pretty  little 
woman,  dressed  in  white,  standing  in  front  of  the  door,  with  a 
pink  parasol  over  her  head,  holding  by  the  hand  a  child,  with 
nothing  on  but  its  night-shirt. 

''  My  dear  creature,"  cried  the  Secretary,  "  what  the  dickens 
is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Five  bushrangers,"  cried  Mrs.  Barker.  "  They  appeared 
suddenly  last  night,  and  stuck  up  the  O'Malleys'  station.  There 
is  nobody  killed.  There  was  no  one  in  the  house  but  Lesbia 
Burke,  —  who  is  inside  now,  —  old  Miles  O'Malley,  and  the 
housekeeper.  They  got  safe  away  when  they  saw  them  coming. 
They  spared  the  men's  huts,  but  have  burnt  the  house  down." 

"  Bad  cess  to  them,"  said  a  harsh,  though  not  unpleasant  voice, 
behind  her ;  and  out  came  a  tall,  rather  gray-headed  woman,  in 
age  about  fifty,  but  with  remains  of  what  must  have  been  remark- 
able bt-auty.  ''  Bad  cess  to  them,  I  say,  Mr.  Oxton  dear.  'T  is 
the  third  home  I  have  been  burnt  out  of  in  twenty  years.  Is 
there  sorra  a  statesman  among  ye  all  can  give  a  poor  old  Phoenix 
2*  c 


34         THE  HILL  YAKS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

beauty  a  house  where  she  may  die  in  peace?  Is  tliis  your  model 
colony,  Secretary  ?  Was  it  for  this  that  I  keened  over  the  cold 
liearthstone  at  Garoopna,  when  we  sold  it  to  the  Brentwoods, 
before  brave  Sam  Buckley  came  a-wooing  there,  to  win  the 
beauty  of  the  world?  Take  me  back  to  Gip})sland  some  of  ye, 
and  let  me  hear  old  Snowy  growling  througli  his  boulders  again, 
tlu'ough  the  quiet  summer's  night ;  or  take  me  back  to  Old  Ire- 
land, and  let  me  sit  sewing  by  the  Castle  window  again,  watching 
the  islands  floating  on  Corrib,  or  the  mist  driving  up  from  the 
Atlantic  before  the  west  wind.  Is  this  your  model  colony  ?  Is 
there  to  be  no  pillow  secure  for  the  head  of  the  jaded,  despised 
old  Dublin  flirt,  who  has  dressed,  and  dizened,  and  painted,  and 
offered  herself,  till  she  became  a  scorn  and  a  by-word  ?  A  curse 
on  all  your  colonies !  Old  Ireland  is  worth  more  than  all  of 
them.     A  curse  on  them  !  " 

"  My  dear  Miss  Burke !  My  dear  Lesbia ! "  pleaded  the 
Secretary. 

"  Don't  talk  to  me.  Hav'n't  I  been  burnt  out  three  times,  by 
blacks  and  by  whites  ?  Hav'n't  I  had  to  fight  for  my  life  like  a 
man  ?  Don't  I  bear  the  marks  of  it  ?  There  is  no  rest  for  me. 
I  know  the  noise  of  it  too  well ;  I  heard  it  last  night.  Darkness, 
silence,  sleep,  and  dreams  of  rest.  Then  the  hoofs  on  the  gravel, 
and  the  beating  at  the  door.  Then  the  awakening,  and  the  ter- 
ror, and  the  shots,  stabs,  blows,  and  curses.  Then  murder  in  the 
drawing-room,  worse  in  the  hall.  Blood  on  the  hearthstone,  and 
fire  on  the  roof-tree.     Don't  I  know  it  all,  James  Oxton  ?" 

"  Dear  Lesbia,"  said  the  good-natured  Secretary,  "  old  friend, 
do  be  more  calm." 

"  Calm,  James  Oxton,  and  another  home  gone?  Tell  me, 
have  you  ever  had  your  house  burnt  down  ?  Do  Agnes  or  Gerty 
know  what  it  is  to  have  their  homes  destroyed,  and  all  their  little 
luxuries  broken  and  dispersed,  their  flowers  trampled,  and  their 
birds  killed?     Do  they  know  this?" 

"  Why,  no,"  said  the  Secretary. 

"  And,  if  it  were  to  happen  to  them,  how  would  you  feel  ?  " 

"  Well,  pretty  much  as  you  do,  I  suppose.  Yes,  I  don't  know 
but  what  I  should  get  cross." 

"  Then,  vengeance,  good  Secretary,  vengeance  !  Honor  and 
hiirh  rewards  to  the  vermin-hunters ;  halters  and  death  for  the 


vermin 


And  so  Miss  Burke  went  in,  her  magnificently-shaped  head 
seeming  to  float  in  the  air  as  she  went,  and  her  glorious  figure 
showing  some  new  curve  of  the  infinitely  variable  curves  of  female 
beauty  at  every  step.  And  it  was  high  time  she  should  go  in ; 
for  the  kind,  good,  honest  soul  was  getting  too  much  excited,  and 
was  talking  more  than  was  good  for  her.      She  had  her  faults, 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  35 

tmd  was,  as  you  see  above,  very  much  given  to  a  Celtic-Danish- 
Milesian-Norniau  way  of  cxpressinijf  licrself,  which  is  apt  to  be 
classified,  on  tliis  side  of  St.  George's  Channel,  as  Irish  rant. 
But  her  rant  had  a  good  deal  of  reason  in  it,  —  which  some  Irish 
rant  has  not,  —  and,  moreover,  was  delivered  with  such  mag- 
nilicent  accessories  of  voice  and  person,  that  James  Oxton  him- 
self had  been  heard  to  declare  that  he  would  at  any  time  walk 
twenty  miles  to  see  Lesbia  Burke  in  a  tantrum.  Even,  also,  if 
you  are  heathen  enough  to  believe  that  the  whole  art  of  rhetoric 
merely  consists  in  plausibly  overstating  your  case,  with  more  or 
less  dishonesty,  as  the  occasion  demands,  or  your  conscience  will 
allow,  yet  still  you  must  admit  that  her  rhetoric  was  successful,  — 
for  this  reason  :  it  produced  on  the  Colonial  Secretary  exactly 
the  effect  slie  wished  :  it  made  him  horribly  angry.  Those  taunts 
of  hers  about  his  model  colony  were  terribly  hard  hitting.  Had 
not  his  Excellency's  speech  at  the  opening  of  the  Houses  con- 
tained—  nay,  mainly  consisted  of — a  somewhat  offensive  com- 
parison between  Cooksland  and  the  other  five  colonies  of  the 
Australian  group ;  in  which  the  perfect  security  of  life  and  pro- 
perty at  home  was  contrasted  with  the  fearful  bush-ranger-outrages 
in  New  South  ^Yales.  And  now  their  turn  had  come,  —  Cooks- 
land's  turn,  —  the  turn  of  James  Oxton,  who  had  made  Cooks- 
land,  and  who  was  Cooksland.  And  to  meet  the  storm  there 
were  only  four  troopers  and  cadets  in  command  of  Lieutenant 
Hillyar,  the  greatest  fool  in  the  service. 

"  Oh,  if  that  fellow  will  only  bear  himself  like  a  man  this  one 
day!"  said  the  Secretary,  as  he  rode  swiftly  along.  "Oh  for 
Wyatt,  or  Malone,  or  Maclean,  or  Dixon,  for  one  short  hour ! 
Oh,  to  get  the  thing  snuffed  out  suddenly  and  sharply,  and  be 
able  to  say,  '  That  is  the  way  ive  manage  matters.' " 

One,  two,  three  —  four  —  five  —  six,  seven,  eight  shots  in  the 
distance,  sounding  dully  through  the  dense  forest.  Then  silence, 
then  two  more  shots ;  and  muttering,  half  as  a  prayer,  half  as  an 
exclamation,  "God  save  us!"  he  dashed  through  the  crowded 
timber  as  fast  as  his  noble  horse  would  carry  him. 

He  was  cutting  off  an  angle  in  the  road,  and,  soon  after  he 
joined  it  again,  he  came  on  the  place  where  the  shots  had  been 
fired.  There  were  two  men  —  neither  of  them  police  —  wounded 
on  .the  grass,  and  at  first  he  hoped  they  were  two  of  the  bush- 
rangers ;  but,  unluckily,  they  turned  out  to  be  two  of  Barker's 
stockmen.  Two  lads,  who  attended  to  them,  told  him  that  the 
bush-rangers  had  turned  on  the  party  here,  and  shown  fight ;  that 
no  one  had  been  wounded  but  these  two ;  that  in  retreating  they 
had  separated,  three  having  gone  to  the  right,  and  two  to  the  left ; 
that  Lieutenant  Hillyar  had  ordered  Mr.  Barker's  men,  and  three 
troopers,  to  go  to  the  right ;  while  he,  attended  only  by  Cadet 


86  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

Simpson,  had  followed  the  two  who  were  goue  to  the  left,  with 
the  expressed  intention  of  riding  them  down,  as  they  were  the 
best  mounted  of  the  five  robbers. 

"  I  hope,"  thouglit  the  Secretary,  "  that  he  will  not  make  a  fool 
of  himself.  The  fellow  is  showing  pluck  and  resolution,  though, — 
a  deal  of  pluck  and  resolution.  He  means  to  make  a  spoon  or 
spoil  a  horn  to-day." 

So,  armed  only  with  a  hunting-whip,  he  put  his  horse  at  a 
canter,  and  hurried  on  to  overtake  Hillyar.  Soon  after  he  heard 
several  shots  ahead,  and  began  to  think  he  might  as  well  have 
had  something  better  in  his  hand  than  a  hunting-whip.  Then  he 
met  a  riderless  horse,  going  large  and  wild,  neighing  and  turning 
•his  head  from  side  to  side,  and  carrying,  alas !  a  government  sad- 
dle. Then  he  came  on  poor  Simpson,  lying  by  the  side  of  the 
road,  looking  very  ghastly  and  wild,  evidently  severely  wounded. 

Mr.  Oxton  jumped  off,  and  cried,  "  Give  me  your  carbine,  my 
poor  lad.     Where  's  Hillyar  ?  " 

"  Gone  after  the  other  two,"  said  Simpson,  feebly. 

"  Two  to  one  now,  eh  ?  "  said  Mr.  Oxton.  "  This  gets  ex- 
citino^." 

So  he  rode  away,  with  the  carbine  on  his  knee  ;  but  he  never 
had  occasion  to  use  it.  Before  he  had  ridden  far  he  came  on  the 
body  of  one  of  the  convicts,  lying  in  a  heap  by  the  road-side  ;  and, 
a  very  short  time  afterwards,  he  met  a  young  gentleman,  in  an 
undress  light-dragoon  uniform,  who  was  riding  slowly  towards 
him,  leading,  handcuffed  to  his  saddle,  one  of  the  most  fiendish- 
looking  ruffians  that  eye  ever  beheld. 

"  "Well  done,  Hillyar  !  Bravely  done,  sir  !  "  cried  Mr.  Oxton. 
"  I  am  under  personal  obligations  to  you.  The  colony  is  under 
personal  obligations  to  you,  sir.     You  are  a  fine  fellow,  sir  ! " 

"  Recommend  me  to  these  new  American  revolvers,  Mr.  Sec- 
retary," replied  the  young  man.  "  These  fellows  had  compara- 
tively no  chance  at  me  with  their  old  pistols,  though  this  fellow 
has  unluckily  hit  poor  Simpson.  When  we  came  to  close  quar- 
ters I  shot  one  fellow,  but  this  one,  preferring  hanging  (queer 
taste),  surrendered,  and  here  he  is." 

This  Lieutenant  Hillyar,  of  whom  we  have  heard  so  much  and 
seen  so  little,  was  certainly  a  very  handsome  young  fellow.  Mr. 
Oxton  was  obliged  to  confess  that.  He  was  tall  and  well-made, 
and  his  features  were  not  rendered  less  attractive  by  the  extreme 
paleness  of  his  complexion,  though  one  who  knew  the  world  as  well 
as  the  Secretary  could  see  that  the  deep  Unes  in  his  face  told  of  des- 
perate hard  living  ;  and  yet  now  (whether  it  was  tliat  the  Secre- 
tary was  anxious  to  make  the  best  of  him,  or  that  George  Hillyar 
was  anxious  to  make  the  best  of  himself),  his  appearance  was 
certainly  not  that  of  a  dissipated  person.     He  looked  high-bred 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  87 

and  handsome,  and  lolled  on  his  horse  with  an  air  of  easy  langor, 
not  actually  unbecoming  in  a  man  who  had  just  done  an  act  of 
such  unequivocal  valor. 

"  Revolvers  or  not,  sir,"  said  Mr.  Oxton,  "  there  is  no  doubt 
about  your  courage  and  determination.  I  wonder  if  the  other 
party  will  have  fared  as  well  as  you." 

"  Undoubtedly,"  said  Ilillyar ;  "  the  other  three  fellows  were 
utterly  outnumbered.  I  assure  you  I  took  great  pains  about  this 
business.  I  was  determined  it  should  succeed.  You  see,  I  have, 
unfortunately,  a  rather  biting  tongue,  and  have  made  myself  many 
enemies  ;  and  I  have  been  an  ol)jectless  man  hitherto,  and  per- 
haps  have  lived  a  little  too  hard.  Now,  however,  that  I  have 
something  to  live  for,  I  shall  change  all  that.  I  wish  the  colony 
to  hear  a  different  sort  of  report  about  me  ;  and  more  than  that, 
I  wish  to  rise  in  the  esteem  of  the  Honorable  James  Oxton, 
Chief  Secretary  for  the  Colony  of  Cooksland,  and  I  have  begun 
already." 

"  You  have,  sir,"  said  the  Secretary,  frankly.  "  Much  remains ; 
however,  we  will  talk  more  of  this  another  time.  See,  here  lies 
poor  Simpson  ;  let  us  attend  to  him.     Poor  fellow  !  " 


CHAPTER   VIII. 

JAMES    BURTON'S    STORY  :    THE    IMMEDIATE    RESULTS    OF    THE 
EXPEDITION   TO   STANLAKE. 

I  HAD  a  presentiment  that  our  proposed  Sunday  expedition 
to  Stanlake  would  lead  to  something;  and  I  was  anxious.  I 
noticed  that  my  mother  had  cried  at  the  mention  of  the  place. 
I  saw  the  look  that  my  father  and  mother  interchanged  when 
Reuben  came  in  ;  and  I  had  overheard  my  flxther's  confidential 
growl  about  the  sins  of  the  fathers  being  visited  on  the  children, 
and  so  on.  Therefore  I  felt  very  much  as  if  I  was  doing  wrong 
in  yielding  to  Joe's  desire  to  go  there,  without  telHng  my  father. 
But  I  simply  acquiesced,  and  never  mentioned  my  scruples  (after 
my  first  feeble  protest  in  bed)  even  to  Joe.  And  I  will  confess 
why.  I  had  a  great  curiosity  to  see  the  place.  I  was  only  a 
poor  stupid  blacksmith-lad  ;  but  my  crippled  brother  had  given 
me  a  taste  for  beautiful  things,  and,  from  my  father's  description, 
this  was  the  most  beautiful  place  in  the  world.  Then  there  was 
the  charm  of  secrecy  and  romance  about  this  expedition,  —  but 


38  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

why  analyze  the  motives  of  a  boy  ?  To  put  it  shortly,  we  de- 
ceived our  good  father  and  mother  for  the  first  time  when  we 
went  there  ;  and  we  reaped  the  consequences. 

The  consequences  !  But  had  the  consequences  been  shown  to 
me  in  a  glass,  on  that  bright  Sunday  morn  when  we  started  to 
Stanlake,  should  I  have  paused  ?  I  have  asked  myself  that 
question  more  than  once,  and  I  have  answered  it  thus.  If  I  had 
seen  all  the  consequences  which  were  to  follow  on  that  expedi- 
tion then,  I  would  have  thrown  myself  off  Battersea  Bridge  soon- 
er than  have  gone.  But  I  was  only  a  blind,  ignorant  boy  at  that 
time.  Now,  as  a  man,  I  begin,  dimly  and  afar  off,  to  understand 
why  we  were  let  go.     I  don't  see  it  all  yet,  but  I  begin  to  see  it. 

I  think  that,  if  I  had  been  the  same  man  that  morning  as  I  am 
now,  I  would  have  said  a  prayer  —  and  gone. 

Now,  what  seems  almost  like  accident,  were  there  such  a  thing, 
favored  us  that  Sunday  morning.  An  affair  which  had  been 
growing  to  a  head  for  some  time  came  to  its  crisis  that  morning. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  William  Avery  had  taken  our  first  floor,  and  Bill 
himself  was  not  going  on  at  all  well.  Mrs.  Bill  had  a  nasty 
tongue,  and  he  was  much  too  "  handy  with  his  hands."  So  it 
came  about  that  Bill  was  more  and  more  at  the  "  Black  Lion," 
and  that  my  father,  who  had  contrived  to  sawder  up  every  man- 
and-wife  quarrel  in  the  buildings,  was  fairly  puzzled  here.  This 
very  Saturday  evening  the  crash  came.  We  had  heard  him  and 
his  wife  "  at  it "  all  the  evening ;  and  heavy  things,  such  as 
chairs,  had  been  falling  overhead,  whereat  my  mother  had  said, 
*'  There  !  Did  you  ever  ?"  But  at  eight  o'clock,  Emma,  taking 
Fred  up  the  broad  old  stairs  to  bed,  in  his  night-gown,  leading 
him  with  one  hand,  holding  a  lighted  candle  in  the  other,  and 
slowly  crooning  out  "  The  Babes  in  the  Wood"  in  her  own  sweet 
way,  was  alarmed  by  the  Averys'  door  being  burst  open,  and  by 
the  awful  spectacle  of  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Avery  fighting  on  the  land- 
ing. Instantly  after,  whether  on  purpose  or  by  accident  I  cannot 
say,  the  poor  woman  was  thrown  headlong  down  stairs,  on  to  the 
top  of  Emma  and  Fred.  The  candle  behaved  like  a  magnificent 
French  firework  ;  but  Mrs.  Bill,  Emma,  and  Fred,  came  down  in 
a  heap  on  the  mat,  the  dear  child,  with  his  usual  luck,  under- 
neath. 

After  this,  William  Avery,  holding  the  landing,  and  audibly, 
nay,  loudly,  expressing  his  desire  to  see  the  master-blaeksraith 
who  would  come  up  stairs  and  offer  to  interfere  between  a  man 
and  his  wife,  it  became  necessary  for  Mrs.  Avery  to  be  accom- 
modated below  for  the  night.  The  next  morning,  after  the  liquor 
had  died  out  of  him,  William  Avery  was  brought  to  task  by  my 
father ;  and  durinor  the  imbroglio  of  recriminations  which  ensued, 
which  ended  in  an  appeal  to  the  magistrate,  we  boys  dared  to  do 


THE  niLLTARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  39 

what  wc  had  never  dared  to  do  before,  —  to  escape  church,  take 
the  steamer  to  London  Bridge,  and  get  on  to  Croydon  by  the  at- 
mo.^})heric  railway,  reaching  that  place  at  half-past  twelve. 

It  was  September,  but  it  was  summer  still.  Those  who  live 
in  the  country,  they  tell  me,  can  see  the  difference  between  a  sum- 
mer-day in  September  and  a  summer-day  in  June  ;  but  we  town- 
folks  cannot.  The  country-folks  have  got  tired  of  their  flowers, 
and  have  begun  to  think  of  early  fires,  and  shortening  days,  and 
turnips,  and  deep  cover,  and  hollies  standing  brave  and  green 
under  showering  oak-leaves,  which  fall  on  the  swift  wings  of 
flitting  woodcocks  ;  but  to  town-folks  September  is  even  as  June. 
The  same  deep  shadows  on  the  grass,  the  same  tossing  plumage 
on  the  elms,  the  same  dull  silver  on  the  willows.  More  silence 
in  the  brooks  perhaps,  and  more  stillness  in  the  woods  ;  but  the 
town-bred  eye  does  not  recognize  the  happy  doze  before  the  win- 
ter's sleep..  The  country  is  the  country  to  them,  and  September 
is  as  June. 

On  a  bright  September  day,  Joe  and  I  came,  well  directed,  to 
some  park-palings,  and  after  a  short  consultation  we  —  in  for  a 
penny  in  for  a  pound,  demoralized  by  the  domestic  differences  of 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Bill  Avery  —  climbed  over  them,  and  stood,  tres- 
passing flagrantly  in  the  park  which  they  enclosed.  We  had  no 
business  there.  We  knew  we  were  doing  wrong.  We  knew 
that  we  ouo-lit  to  have  o-one  to  church  that  moruinor.  We  were 
guilty  beings  for,  I  really  think,  the  first  time  in  our  lives. 
William  Avery's  having  thrown  his  wife  down  stairs  on  to  the 
top  of  Emma  and  Fred  had  been  such  a  wonderful  disturbance 
of  old  order  and  law,  that  we  were  in  a  revolutionary  frame  of 
mind.  We  knew  that  order  would  be  once  more  restored,  some 
time  or  another,  but,  meanwhile,  the  barricades  were  up,  and  the 
jails  were  burning  ;  so  we  were  determined  to  taste  the  full  pleas- 
ure derivable  from  a  violent  disturbance  of  the  political  balance. 

First  of  all  we  came  on  a  bright  broad  stream,  in  which  we 
could  see  brown  spotted  fish,  scudding  about  on  the  shallows, 
which  Joe  said  must  be  trout.  And,  after  an  unsuccessful  at- 
tempt to  increase  the  measure  of  our  sins  by  adding  poaching 
to  trespass,  we  passed  on  towards  a  dark  wood,  from  which  the 
stream  issued. 

It  was  a  deep  dark  wood  of  lofty  elms,  and,  as  we  passed  on 
into  it,  the  gloom  grew  deeper.  Far  aloft  the  sun  gleamed  on 
the  highest  boughs ;  but,  beneath,  the  stream  swept  on  through 
the  shadows,  with  scarcely  a  gleam  of  light  upon  the  surface. 
At  last  we  came  on  a  waterfall,  and,  on  our  climbing  the  high 
bank  on  one  side  of  it,  the  lake  opened  on  our  view.  It  was 
about  a  quarter  of  a  mile  long,  hemmed  in  by  wood  on  all  sides, 
with  a  boat-house,  built  like  a  Swiss  chalet,  half-way  along  it. 


40  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

The  silence  and  solitude  were  profound ;  nothing  seemed 
moving  but  the  great  dragon-flies ;  it  was  the  most  beautiful 
place  we  had  ever  seen ;  nothing  would  have  stopped  us  now 
short  of  a  policeman. 

We  determined  to  wait,  and  go  further  before  we  gathered  the 
water-lilies ;  then,  suddenly,  up  rose  a  great  red-and-black  but- 
terfly, and  Joe  cried  out  to  me  for  heaven's  sake  to  get  it  for  him. 
Away  went  the  butterfly,  and  I  after  it,  headlong,  not  seeing 
where  I  went,  only  intent  on  the  chase.  At  one  time  I  clam- 
bered over  a  sunk  fence,  and  found  myself  out  of  the  wood  ;  then 
I  vaulted  over  an  iron  hurdle,  then  barely  saved  myself  from  fall- 
ing into  a  basin  of  crystal  water,  with  a  fountain  in  the  middle ; 
then  I  was  on  a  gravel  walk,  and  at  last  got  my  prize  under  my 
cap,  in  the  middle  of  a  bed  of  scarlet  geranium  and  blue  lobelia. 

"  Hang  it,  I  thought,  I  must  be  out  of  this  pretty  quick.  This 
won't  do.  We  shan't  get  through  this  Sunday  without  a  blessed 
row,  I  hiow" 

A  voice  behind  me  said,  with  every  kind  of  sarcastic  em- 
phasis :  — 

"  Upon  my  veracity,  young  gentleman.  Upon  my  word  and 
honor.  Now  do  let  me  beg  and  pray  of  you,  my  dear  creature, 
to  make  yourself  entirely  at  home.  Trample,  and  crush,  and  ut- 
terly destroy,  three  or  four  more  of  my  flower-beds,  and  then 
come  in  and  have  some  lunch.      Upon  my  word  and  honor ! " 

I  turned,  and  saw  behind  me  a  very  handsome  gentleman,  of 
about  fifty-five  or  so,  in  a  blue  coat,  a  white  waistcoat,  and  drab 
trousers,  exquisitely  neat,  who  stood  and  looked  at  me,  with  his 
hands  spread  abroad  interrogatively,  and  his  delicate  eyebrows 
arched  into  an  expression  of  sarcastic  inquiry.  "  He  won't  hit 
me,"  was  my  first  thought ;  and  so  I  brought  my  elbows  down 
from  above  my  ears,  rolled  up  my  cap  with  the  butterfly  inside  it, 
and  began  to  think  about  flight. 

I  could  n't  take  my  eyes  off"  him.  He  was  a  strange  figure  to 
me.  So  very  much  like  a  perfect  piece  of  waxwork.  His  coat 
was  so  blue,  his  waistcoat  so  white,  his  buttons  so  golden,  his  face 
so  smoothly  shaven,  and  his  close-cropped  gray  hair  so  wonder- 
fully sleek.  His  hands  too,  such  a  delicate  mixture  of  brown  and 
white,  with  one  blazing  diamond  on  the  right  one.  I  saw  a  grand 
gentleman  for  the  first  time,  and  this,  combined  with  a  slightly 
guilty  conscience,  took  the  edge  ofl'  my  London  prentice  auda- 
city, and  made  me  just  the  least  bit  in  the  world  afraid. 

I  had  refinement  enough  (thanks  to  my  association  with  Joe, 
a  gentleman  born,)  not  to  be  impudent.  I  said,  —  "I  am  very, 
very  sorry,  sir.  The  truth  is,  sir,  I  wanted  this  butterfly,  and  I 
followed  it  into  your  grounds.  I  meant  no  harm,  indeed,  sir. 
(As  I  said  it,  in  those  old  times,  it  ran  something  like  this,  —  "I 


THE  IIILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  41 

wnntcd  tlint  c:c  butterfly,  sir,  and  I  follered  of  it  into  your  little 
pl;u'i\  wliich  I  did  n't  mean  no  harm,  I  do  assure  you)." 

'•  Well !  well !  well ! "  said  Sir  George  Ilillyar,  '•  I  don't  say 
you  did.  When  I  was  at  Eton,  I  have  bee-hunted  into  all  sorts 
ot"  strange  places.  To  the  very  feet  of  royalty,  on  one  occasion. 
Indeed,  you  are  forgiven.  See  here,  Erne  :  here  is  a  contrast  to 
your  lazy  style  of  life ;  here  is  a " 

"  Blacksmith,"  I  said. 

"  Blacksmith,"  said  Sir  George,  "  I  beg  your  pardon  ;  who  will 
—  will  —  do  all  kinds  of  things  (he  said  this  with  steady  severity) 
in  pursuit  of  a  butterfly.     An  example,  my  child." 

Taking  my  eyes  from  Sir  George  Hillyar,  for  the  first  time,  I 
saw  that  a  boy,  about  my  own  age  apparently,  (I  was  nearly  six- 
teen,) had  come  up  and  was  standing  beside  him,  looking  at  me, 
with  his  arm  passed  through  his  father's,  and  his  head  leaning 
against  his  shoulder. 

Such  a  glorious  lad.  As  graceful  as  a  deer.  Dark  brown 
hair,  that  wandered  about  his  forehead  like  the  wild  boughs  of  a 
neglected  vine ;  features  regular  and  beautiful ;  a  complexion 
well-toned,  but  glazed  over  with  rich  sun-brown ;  a  most  beauti- 
ful youth,  yet  whose  beauty  was  extinguished  and  lost  in  the 
blaze  of  tw^o  great  blue-black  eyes,  which  forced  you  to  look  at 
them,  and  which  made  you  smile  as  you  looked. 

So  I  saw  him  first.  How  well  I  remember  his  first  words, 
"Who  is  this?" 

I  answered  promptly  for  myself.  I  wanted  Joe  to  see  him,  for 
we  had  never  seen  anything  like  him  before,  and  Joe  was  now 
visible  in  the  dim  distance,  uncertain  what  to  do.  I  said,  "I 
hunted  this  butterfly,  sir,  from  the  corner  of  the  lake  into  this 
garden ;  and,  if  you  will  come  to  my  brother  Joe,  he  will  con- 
firm me.     May  I  go,  sir  ?  " 

"  You  may  go,  my  boy,"  said  Sir  George ;  "  and,  Erne,  you 
may  show  him  off"  the  place,  if  you  please.  This  seems  an  hon- 
est lad.  Erne.     You  may  walk  with  him  if  you  will." 

So  he  turned  and  went  towards  the  house,  which  I  now  had 
time  to  look  at.  A  bald,  bare,  white  place,  after  all ;  with  a 
great  expanse  of  shadeless  flower-garden  round  it.  What  you 
would  call  a  very  great  place,  but  a  very  melancholy  one,  which 
looked  as  though  it  must  be  very  damp  in  winter.  The  lake  in 
tlie  wood  was  the  part  of  that  estate  which  pleased  me  best. 

Erne  and  I  walked  away  together,  towards  the  dark,  inscru- 
table future,  and  never  said  a  word  till  we  joined  Joe.  Then  we 
three  walked  on  through  the  wood,  Joe  very  much  puzzled  by 
what  had  happened ;  and  at  last  Erne  said  to  me,  — 

"  What  is  your  name  ?  " 

"  Jim." 


42  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  I  say,  Jim,  what  did  you  come  here  for,  old  fellow  ?  " 

"  We  came  after  the  water-lilies/'  1  said.  "  We  were  told 
there  were  yellow  ones  here." 

"  So  there  were,"  he  said  ;  "  but  we  have  rooted  them  all  up. 
If  you  will  come  here  next  Sunday,  I  will  get  you  some." 

"  I  am  afraid  we  can't,  sir,"  I  said.  "  If  it  had  n't  been  for 
Bill  Avery  hitting  his  missis  down  stairs,  we  could  n't  have  come 
here  to-day.     And  we  shall  catch  it  now." 

"  Do  you  go  to  school  ?  "  said  Erne. 

"  No,  sir  ;  I  am  apprenticed  to  father.     Joe  here  does." 

"  Do  the  fellows  like  you,  Joe  ?     Have  you  got  any  friends  ?  " 

Joe  stopped,  and  looked  at  him.     He  said,  — 

"  Yes,  sir.  Many  dear  friends,  God  be  praised !  though  I  am 
only  a  poor  hunchback.     Have  you  many,  sir  ?  " 

"  Not  one  single  one,  God  help  me,  Joe.     Not  one  single  one." 

It  came  on  to  rain,  but  he  would  not  leave  us.  We  walked 
to  the  station  together ;  and,  as  we  walked,  Joe,  the  poet,  told  us 
tales,  so  that  the  way  seemed  short.  Tales  of  sudden  friendships 
made  in  summer  gardens,  which  outlive  death.  Of  long-sought 
love;  of  lands  far  off;  lands  of  peace  and  wealth,  where  there 
was  no  sorrow,  no  care ;  only  an  eternal,  dull,  aching  regret  for 
home,  never  satisfied;  and  of  the  great  heaving  ocean,  which 
thundered  and  burst  everlastingly  on  the  pitiless  coast,  and  sent 
its  echoes  booming  up  the  long-drawn  corridors  of  the  dark, 
storm-shaken  forest  capes. 

Did  Joe  tell  us  all  these  stories,  or  has  my  memory  become 
confused  ?     I  forget,  good  reader,  I  forget ;  it  is  so  long  ago. 

We  had  to  wait,  and  Erne  would  sit  and  wait  with  us  in  the 
crowded  waiting-room,  and  he  sat  between  Joe  and  me.  He 
asked  me  where  I  lived,  and  I  told  him,  "  Church  Place,  Church 
Street,  Chelsea."  Somehow  we  were  so  crowded  that  his  arm 
got  upon  my  shoulder,  just  as  if  he  were  a  school-fellow  and  an 
equal.     The  last  words  he  said  were,  — 

"  Come  back  and  see  me,  Jim.  I  have  not  got  a  friend  in  the 
world." 

Joe,  in  the  crush  before  the  train  started,  heard  the  station- 
master  say  to  a  friend,  —  "  It 's  a  queer  thing :  it  runs  in  families. 
There  's  young  Erne  Hillyar  is  going  the  same  way  as  his  brother. 
I  seen  him,  with  my  own  eyes,  sitting  in  the  second-class  waiting- 
room,  with  his  arm  on  the  shoulder  of  a  common  young  cad. 
He  has  took  to  low  company,  you  see  ;  and  he  will  go  to  the 
devil,  like  his  brother." 

If  the  station-master  had  known  what  I  thought  of  him  after 
I  heard  this,  he  would  not  have  slept  the  better,  I  fancy.  Low 
company,  forsooth.  Could  the  Honorable  James  Burton,  of  the 
Supreme  Council  of  Cooksland,  Colonial  Commissioner  for  the 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  43 

Exhibition  of  1862,  ever  have  been  justly  described  as  "low 
company  ? "  Certainly  not.  I  was  very  angry  then.  I  am 
furious  now.     Intolerable  !       " 

This  Sunday's  expedition,  so  important  as  it  was,  was  never 
inquired  into  by  ray  father.  "When  we  got  home  we  found  that 
our  guilty  looks  were  not  noticed.  Tlie  affair  between 'William 
Avery  and  his  wife  had  complicated  itself,  and  gpt  to  be  very 
serious,  and  sad  indeed.  When  we  got  home  we  found  my 
father  sitting  and  smoking  opposite  my  mother  ;  and,  on  inquiry, 
we  heard  that  Emma  had  been  sent  up  to  bed  with  the  children 
at  seven  o'clock. 

I  thought  at  first  that  we  were  going  to  "  catch  it."  I,  who 
knew  every  attitude  of  theirs  so  well,  could  see  that  they  were 
sitting  in  judgment ;  and  I  thought  it  was  on  us.  This  was  the 
first  time  we  had  ever  done  any  great  wrong  to  them ;  and  I 
felt  that,  if  we  could  have  it  out,  there  and  then,  we  should  be 
happier.  And  so  I  went  to  my  father's  side,  put  my  arm  on  his 
shoulder,  and  said,  — 

"  Father,  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it." 

"  My  old  Jim,"  he  answered,  "  what  can  you  tell,  any  more 
than  we  have  heard  this  miserable  day  ?  We  know  all  as  you 
may  have  heard,  my  boy.  Little  Polly  Martin,  too.  Who 
would  have  thought  it  ?  " 

My  mother  began  to  cry  bitterly.  I  began  to  guess  that 
William  Avery  had  quarrelled  with  his  wife  on  the  grounds  of 
jealousy,  and,  also,  that  my  father  and  mother  had  sifted  the 
evidence  and  pronounced  her  guilty.  I  knew  all  about  it  at 
once  from  those  few  words,  though  I  was  but  a  lad  of  sixteen. 

I  knew  now,  and  I  had  suspected  before,  that  young  Mrs. 
Avery  was  no  longer  such  a  one  as  my  father  and  mother  would 
allow  to  sit  down  in  the  same  room  with  Emma. 

She  had  been,  before  her  marriage,  a  dark-eyed,  pretty  little 
body,  apparently  quite  blameless  in  every  way,  and  a  great 
favorite  of  my  mother's.  But  she  married  William  Avery,  a 
smart  young  waterman,  rather  to  much  given  to  "  potting,"  and 
she  learnt  the  accursed  trick  of  drinkino;  from  him.  And  then 
everything  went  wrong.  She  could  sing,  worse  luck  ;  and  one 
Saturday  night  she  went  marketing,  and  did  not  come  home. 
And  he  went  after  her,  and  found  her  singing  in  front  of  the 
Six  Bells  in  the  King's  Road,  having  spent  all  his  money.  And 
then  he  beat  her  for  the  first  time ;  and  then  things  went  on 
from  bad  to  worse,  till  the  last  and  worst  crash  came,  on  the 
very  week  when  Joe  and  I  ran  away  to  Stanlake. 

WiUiam  was  fined  by  Mr.  Paynter  for  beating  his  wife ;  and 
soon  after  his  end  came.  He  took  seriously  to  drinking.  One 
dark  night  he  and  his  mate  were  bringing  the  barge  down  on  the 


44  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

tide,  —  his  mate,  Sam  Agar,  with  the  sweeps,  and  poor  Avery 
steering,  —  and  she  (the  barge)  would  n't  behave.  Sam  knew 
that  poor  Avery  was  drunk,  and  rectified  his  bad  steering  with 
the  sweeps  as  well  as  he  was  able.  But,  approaching  Battersea 
Bridge,  good  Sam  saw  that  she  was  broadside  to  the  tide,  and 
cried  ou^,  —  "  Starboard,  Bill !  Starboard,  old  boy,  for  God's 
sake  ! "  but  there  was  no  answer.  She  struck  the  Middlesex 
pier  of  the  main  arch  heavily,  and  nearly  heaved  over  and  went 
down,  but  righted  and  swung  through.  When  Sam  Agar  found 
himself  in  clear  water,  he  ran  aft  to  see  after  Bill  Avery.  But 
the  poor  fellow  had  tumbled  over  long  before,  and  the  barge  had 
been  steering  herself  for  a  mile.  His  body  came  ashore  oppo- 
site Smith's  distillery,  and  Mr.  Wakley  delivered  himself  of  a 
philippic  against  drunkenness  to  the  jury  who  sat  upon  him. 

And  his  wife  went  utterly  to  the  bad.  I  thought  we  had 
heard  the  last  of  her,  but  it  was  not  so.  My  mother's  face,  when 
she  turned  up  again,  after  so  many  years,  ought  to  have  been 
photographed  and  published.  "  \Ye\l,  now,  you  know,  this 
really  is,"  was  what  she  said.  It  was  the  expression  of  her 
face,  the  look  of  blank,  staring  wonder  that  amused  Joe  and  me 
so  much. 


CHAPTER    IX. 

SIR  GEORGE  HILLYAR. 


One  morning  in  September,  Sir  George  Hillyar  sat  In  his 
study,  before  his  escritoire,  very  busy  with  his  papers ;  and  be- 
side him  was  his  lawyer,  Mr.  Compton. 

Sir  George  was  a  singularly  handsome,  middle-aged  gentle- 
man, with  a  square  ruddy  face,  very  sleek  close-cropped  gray 
hair,  looking  very  high-bred  and  amiable,  save  in  two  points. 
He  had  a  short  thick  neck,  like  a  bulldog,  and  a  very  obstinate- 
looking  and  rather  large  jaw.  To  give  you  his  character  in  a 
few  words,  he  was  a  just,  kind  man,  of  not  very  high  intellect, 
in  spite  of  his  high  cultivation  ;  of  intensely  strong  affections, 
and  (whether  it  was  the  fault  of  his  thick  neck,  or  his  broad 
jaw,  I  cannot  say),  as  obstinate  as  a  mule. 

"  Are  you  really  going  to  renew  this  lease.  Sir  George  ? " 
said  Mr.  Compton. 

"  Why,  yes,  I  think  so.     I  promised  Erne  I  would." 

"Will  you  excuse  me,  Sir  George,  if  I  ask,  as  your  confidential 


THE   HILLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS.  45 

friend  of  many  years'  standing,  what  the  deuse  my  young  friend 
Erne  has  to  do  with  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Nothing  in  the  world,"  said  Sir  George ;  "  but  they  got  hold 
of  him  when  we  were  down  there,  and  he  got  me  to  promise. 
Therefore  I  must,  don't  you  see." 

"  No,  I  don't.  This  widow  and  her  sons  are  ruining  the  farm ; 
you  projiose  to  give  them  seven  years  longer  to  complete  their 
work.  How  often  have  you  laid  it  down  as  a  rule,  never  to  rg- 
new  a  lease  to  a  widow ;  and  here  you  are  doing  it,  because  that 
young  gaby,  Erne,  has  been  practised  on,  and  asks  you." 

"I  know  all  that,"  said  Sir  George,  "but  I  am  quite  deter- 
mined." 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  Mr.  Compton,  rather  nettled,  "  let 's 
say  no  more.     I  know  what  that  means." 

"  You  see,  Compton,  I  ivill  not  disappoint  that  boy  in  anything 
of  this  kind.  I  have  kept  him  here  alone  with  me,  and  allowed 
him  to  see  scarce  any  one.  You  know  why.  And  the  boy  has  not 
seen  enough  of  the  outside  world,  and  has  no  sympathies  with 
his  fellow-men  whatever.  And  I  will  not  baulk  him  in  this. 
These  are  the  first  people  he  has  shown  an  interest  in,  Compton, 
and  he  shan't  be  baulked." 

"  He  would  have  shown  an  interest  in  plenty  of  people,  if  you 
M'ould  have  let  him,"  said  the  lawyer.  "  Y^ou  have  kept  him 
mewed  up  here  till  he  is  fifteen,  with  no  companion  but  his  tutor, 
and  your  gray-headed  household.  The  boy  has  scarcely  spoken 
with  a  human  being  under  fifty  in  his  lifetime.  Why  don't  you 
let  him  see  young  folks  of  his  own  age  ?  " 

"  Why ! "  said  Sir  George  angrily.  "  Have  I  two  hearts  to 
break  that  you  ask  me  this  ?  Y^ou  know  why,  Compton.  Y^'ou 
know  how  that  woman  and  her  child  broke  my  heart  once.  Do 
you  want  it  broken  again  by  this,  the  child  of  my  old  age,  I  may 
say,  —  the  child  of  my  angel  Mary  ?  " 

"  You  will  have  your  heart  broken  if  you  don't  mind,  Hilly ar," 
said  the  lav/yer.  "  I  will  speak  out  once  and  for  all.  If  you  keep 
that  boy  tied  up  here  in  this  unnatural  way,  he  will  play  the 
deuse  some  day  or  another.  Upon  my  word,  tlillyar,  this  fan- 
tigue  of  yours  approaches  lunacy.  To  keep  a  noble  high-mettled 
boy  like  Erne  cooped  up  among  gray-headed  grooms  and  foot- 
men, and  never  to  allow  him  to  see  a  round  young  face  except 
in  church.     It  is  rank  madness." 

"I  have  had  enough  of  young  servants,"  said  Sir  George. 
"  I  will  bnve  no  more  Samuel  Burtons,  if  you  please." 

"  Who  the  deuse  wants  you  to  ?  Send  the  boy  among  lads  in 
his  own  rank  in  life." 

"  I  have  done  it  once.     They  bore  him.     He  don't  like  'em." 
"  Because  you  don't  let  him  choose  them  for  himself." 


46  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  Let  him  have  the  chance  of  choosmg,  in  his  ignorance,  such 
ruffians  as  young  Mottesfont  and  young  Peters,  for  instance," 
said  Sir  George,  scornfully.  "  No  more  of  that,  thank  you,  either. 
You  are  a  sage  coimsellor,  upon  my  word,  Compton.  Let  us 
change  the  subject." 

"  Upon  my  honor  we  had  better,"  said  the  lawyer,  "  if  I  am 
to  keep  ray  temper.  You  are,  without  exception,  the  most 
wrong-headed  man  I  ever  saw.  This  I  will  say,  that,  as  soon  as 
Erne  is  released  from  this  unnatural  restraint,  as  he  must  be 
soon,  he  will  make  friends  with  the  first  young  man,  and  fall  in 
love  with  the  first  pretty  face,  he  sees.  You  have  given  him  no 
selection ;  and,  by  Jove,  you  have  given  him  a  better  chance  of 
going  to  the  dense  than  ever  you  did  his  half-brother." 

Obstinate  men  are  not  always  ill-tempered ;  Sir  George  Hill- 
yar  was  not  an  ill-tempered  man.  His  obstinacy  arose  as  much 
perhaps  from  self-esteem,  caused  by  his  having  been  from  his 
boyhood  master  of  ten  thousand  a  year,  as  from  his  bull-neck  and 
broad  jaw.  He  was  perfectly  good-tempered  over  this  scolding 
of  his  kind  old  friend ;  he  only  said,  — 

"  Now,  Compton,  you  know  me.  I  have  thought  over  the 
matter  more  than  you  have.  I  am  determined.  Let  us  get  on 
to  business." 

"  Very  well ! "  said  the  lawyer ;  "  these  papers  you  have  signed ; 
I  had  better  take  them  to  the  office." 

"  Yes ;  put  'em  in  your  old  japanned  box,  and  put  it  on  tlie 
third  shelf  from  the  top,  between  Viscount  Sal  tire  and  the  Earl 
of  Ascot ;  not  much  in  his  box,  is  there,  hey  !  " 

"  A  deal  there  should  n't  be,"  said  the  lawyer.  "  Is  there 
nothing  else  for  me  to  put  in  the  tin  box  of  Sir  George  Hillyar, 
Bart,  on  the  third  shelf  from  the  top  ?  " 

"  No !  hang  it,  no,  Compton.  I  '11  keep  it  here.  I  might  alter 
it.  Things  might  happen  ;  and,  when  death  looks  in  between 
the  curtains,  a  man  is  apt  to  change  his  mind.    I  '11  keep  it  here." 

He  pointed  to  the  tall  fantastically-carved  escritoire  at  which 
he  was  sitting,  and,  tapping  it,  said  once  again,  "  I  '11  keep  it 
here,  Compton  ;  I  '11  keep  it  here,  old  friend." 

Sir  George  Hillyar's  history  is  told  in  a  very  few  words.  His 
first  marriage  was  a  singularly  unfortunate  one.  Lady  llillyar 
sold  herself  to  him  for  his  wealth,  and  afterwards  revenged  her- 
self on  him  by  leading  him  the  life  of  a  dog.  She  was  an  evil- 
tempered  woman,  and  her  ill-temper  improved  by  practice.  They 
had  one  son,  the  Lieutenant  Hillyar  we  have  already  seen  in 
Australia,  and  whose  history  we  have  heard ;  whose  only  recol- 
lections of  a  mother  must  have  been  those  of  a  restless  dark 
woman  who  wrangled  and  wept  perpetually.  Sir  George  Hill- 
yar's constitutional  obstinacy  did  him  but  little  good  here ;  his 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  47 

calm  inflexibility  was  more  maddening  to  his  fierce  wild  wife 
than  the  loudest  objurgation  would  have  been.  One  night,  when 
little  George  was  lying  in  his  cradle,  she  kissed  hiiu  and  left 
the  house ;  left  it  for  utter  ruin  and  disgrace ;  unfaithful  more 
from  temper  than  from  ])assion. 

In  two  years  she  died.  She  wore  her  fierce  heart  out  at  last 
in  ceaseless  reproaches  on  the  man  with  whom  she  had  fled,  the 
man  whom  she  had  jilted  that  she  might  marry  Sir  George  Ilill- 
yar.  A  dark  wild  story  all  through ;  which  left  its  traces  on  the 
obstinate  face  of  Sir  George  Hillyar,  and  on  the  character  and 
life  of  his  poor  boy. 

Dark  suspicions  arose  in  his  mind  about  this  boy.  He  never 
loved  him,  but  he  was  inexorably  just  to  him.  His  suspicions 
about  him  were  utterly  groundless ;  his  common  sense  told  him 
that,  but  he  could  not  lo\'e  him,  for  he  had  nearly  learnt  to  hate 
his  mother.  He  was  more  than  ordinarily  careful  over  his  edu- 
cation, and  his  extra  care  led  to  the  disasters  we  know  of. 

But  there  was  a  brief  glimpse  of  sunshine  in  store  for  Sir 
George  Hillyar.  He  was  still  a  young,  and,  in  spite  of  all  ap- 
pearances, a  warm-hearted  man.     And  he  fell  in  love  again. 

He  went  down  into  AViltshire  to  shoot  over  an  outlying  estate 
of  his,  which  he  seldom  visited  save  for  sporting  purposes,  keep- 
in  «■  no  establishment  there,  but  lodsfinor  with  his  bailiff.  And 
it  so  happened  that  the  gamekeeper's  daughter  came  down  the 
long  grass  ride,  between  the  fallowing  hazel  copse,  under  the 
October  sun,  to  bring  them  lunch.  And  she  was  so  divinely 
beautiful  that  he  shot  badly  all  the  afternoon,  and  in  the  even- 
ing went  to  the  keeper's  lodge  to  ask  questions  about  the  pheas- 
ants, and  saw  her  again.  And  she  was  so  graceful,  so  good,  and 
so  modest,  that  in  four  days  he  asked  her  to  marry  him ;  and,  if 
ever  there  was  a  happy  marriage  it  was  this  ;  for  truth  is  stranger 
than  fiction,  as  many  folks  know. 

They  had  one  boy,  whom  they  christened  Erne,  after  an  Irish 
family ;  and,  when  he  was  two  years  old,  poor  Lady  Hillyar 
stayed  out  too  late  one  evening  on  the  lake,  too  soon  after  her 
second  confinement.  She  caught  cold,  and  •flied,  leaving  an  in- 
fant who  quickly  followed  her.  And  then  Sir  George  transferred 
all  the  love  of  his  heart  to  the  boy  Erne,  who,  as  he  grew,  showed 
that  he  had  inherited  not  only  his  mother's  beauty,  but  all  the 
yielding  gentleness  of  her  disposition. 


48  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 


CHAPTER    X. 

ERNE  MAKES   HIS  ESCAPE  FROM  THE   BRAZEN  TOWER. 

After  his  wife's  death,  Sir  George  Hillyar  transferred  all  the 
love  of  his  heart  from  the  dead  mother  to  the  living  child.  He 
was  just  to  his  eldest  son  ;  but  George  Hillyar  could  not  but  see 
that  he  was  as  naught  compared  to  his  younger  half-brother,  — 
nay,  more,  could  not  but  see  that  there  was  something  more  than 
mere  indifference  in  his  father's  feeling  towards  him ;  there  was 
dislike.  Carefully  as  Sir  George  concealed  it,  as  he  thought,  the 
child  discovered  it,  and  the  boy  resented  it.  And  so  it  fell  out 
that  George  Hillyar  never  knew  what  it  was  to  be  loved  until  he 
met  Gertrude  Neville.  By  his  father's  mistaken  policy,  with 
regard  to  his  education,  he  was  thrown  among  vicious  people, 
and  became  terribly  vicious  himself.  He  went  utterly  to  the 
dogs.  He  grew  quite  abandoned  at  one  time ;  and  was  witliin 
reach  of  the  law.  But,  perhaps,  the  only  wise  thing  his  father 
ever  did  for  him,  was  to  stop  his  rambles  on  the  Continent,  and, 
partly  by  persuasion,  partly  by  threats,  induce  him  to  go  to  Aus- 
tralia. He  got  a  cadetship  in  the  police,  partly  for  the  pay, 
partly  for  the  uniform,  partly  for  the  sake  of  the  entree^  —  the 
recognized  position  it  would  give  him  in  certain  quarters.  So  he 
raised  himself  somewhat.  He  found,  at  first,  that  it  faid  to  be 
respectable.  Then  he  found  that  it  was  pleasant  to  be  in  society  ; 
and  his  old  life  appeared,  at  times,  to  be  horrible  to  him.  And, 
at  last,  he  fell  in  love  with  Gerty  Neville ;  and,  what  is  stranger 
still,  she  fell  in  love  with  him.  At  this  time  there  is  a  chance 
for  him.  As  we  leave  him  with  good  Mr.  Oxton,  looking  after 
his  wounded  comrade,  his  fate  hangs  in  the  balance. 

After  his  terrible  fiasco^  Sir  George  would  have  no  more  of 
schools  or  young  ^rvants.  He  had  been  careful  enough  with 
his  firstborn  (as  he  thought  then)  ;  he  would  lock  Erne  up  in  a 
brazen  tower.  He  filled  his  house  with  grey-headed  servants ; 
he  got  for  the  boy,  at  a  vast  expense,  a  gentle,  kind  old  college 
don  as  tutor,  —  a  man  who  had  never  taken  orders,  with  a  taste 
for  natural  history,  who  wished  to  live  peaceably,  and  mix  with 
good  society.  The  boy  Erne  was  S])lendidly  educ-ated  and  cared 
for.  He  was  made  a  little  prince,  but  they  never  spoiled  him. 
He  must  liave  friends  of  his  own  age,  of  course :  Lord  Edward 
Bellamy  and  the  little  Marquis  of  Tullygoram  were  selected, 
and  induced  to  come  and  stay  with  him,  after  close  inquiries,  and 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  TIIK   BURTONS.  49 

some  dexterous  manoeuvring  on  the  part  of  Sir  George.  T^iit 
Krne  did  not  take  to  them.  They  were  uiec,  clever  hids,  but 
neitlior  of  them  had  been  to  scliool.  Erne  objected.  lie  wanted 
to  know  fellows  who  had  been  to  school ;  nay,  r('l)elliously  wanted 
to  jjo  to  school  himself,  —  which  was  not  to  be  thought  of.  In 
short,  at  filteen,  Erne  was  a  very  noble,  sensitive,  well-educated 
and  clever  lad,  without  a  single  friend  of  his  own  age ;  and, 
becoming  rebellious,  he  began  to  cast  about  to  find  friends  for 
himself.  It  was  through  Providence,  and  not  Sir  George's  good 
management,  that  he  did  not  do  worse  in  that  way,  than  he  did, 
poor  lad. 

Sir  George  Ilillyar  and  INIr.  Compton  met  in  the  dining-room 
at  the  second  £fon<x.  Sir  George  ranor  the  bell  and  asked  if  Mr. 
Erne  was  come  in.     lie  was  not. 

"  We  will  have  dinner,  though.  If  the  boy  likes  his  soup  cold, 
let  him  have  i^  so.'*     And  so  they  went  to  dinner. 

But  no  Erne.  Claret  and  abuse  of  Lord  John  ;  then  coffee 
and  abuse  of  Sir  Robert ;  but  no  Erne.  They  began  to  get 
uneasy. 

"  He  has  never  gone  out  like  this  before,"  said  Sir  George. 
"  I  must  really  make  inquiries." 

But  no  one  could  answer  them.  Erne  was  not  in  his  bed- 
room. His  horse  was  in  the  stable.  Even  Mr.  Compton  got 
anxious. 

Obstinate  men  are  pretty  sure  to  adopt  the  counsels  they  have 
scornfully  declined,  as  soon  as  they  can  do  so  without  being 
observed.  Old  Compton  knew  obstinate  men  well ;  and  knew, 
therefore,  that  what  he  had  said  about  Erne's  being  kept  in  soli- 
tude, would,  after  a  decent  lapse  of  time,  lead  to  Erne's  being 
treated  in  a  more  rational  way.  He  knew  well  that  no  jDCople 
are  more  easily  managed  than  obstinate  people  (by  those  whom 
they  thoroughly  respect),  if  a  sharp  attack  is  made  on  them,  and 
then  silence  preserved  on  the  subject  ever  after.  He  knew  that 
the  slightest  renewal  of  the  subject  would  postpone  the  adoption 
of  his  advice  indefinitely,  for  he  knew  that  obstinacy  was  only 
generated  by  conceit  and  want  of  determination.  Therefore  he 
was  very  anxious. 

"  Erne  has  bolted,"  he  thought,  "  and  ruined  all.  There  is  no 
chance  of  knockino:  sense  into  his  father's  head  this  next  ten 
years." 

But  Sir  George  walked  uneasily  up  and  down,  thinking  of  far 
other  things.  His  terror  took  a  material  form.  Something  must 
have  happened  to  Erne.  He  had  gone  out  alone,  and  something 
had  befallen  him ;  what,  he  could  not  conceive,  but  he  vowed 
that,  if  "he  ever  got  him  back  again,  he  should  choose  what  com- 
panion he  would,  but  should  never  go  out  alone  any  more.  By 
3  D 


50  THE  HILLYAES  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

daylight  he  was  half  crazy  with  anxiety,  and  just  afterwards 
frantic.  The  head-keeper  came  in,  and  reported  that  one  of  the 
boats  was  loose  on  the  lake. 

They  dragged  it  madly,  from  eiid  to  end.    The  country  peopie 
heard  that  young  Erne  Hillyar  was  (h-owned  in  Stanlake  Pool, 
and  wei'e  kind  enough  to  come  in  by  hundreds.     It  was  the  best 
thing  since  the  fan*.     The  gypsies  moved  up  in  a  body,  and  told 
fortunes.     The  country-folks  came  and  sat  in  rows  on  the  wire 
fences,  like  woodpigeons  on  ash-trees  in   autumn.     The  young 
men  and  boys  "  chivied  "  one  another  through  the  flower-garden, 
turned  on  the  fountains,  and  pushed  one  another  into  the  marble 
basins ;    and  the   draggers   dragged  in   the    lake,  and  produced 
nothing   but  water-lily  roots ;   which,  being  mistaken    for   rare 
esculents  by  the   half-cockney  population,  were    stolen   by  the 
thousand,  and,  after  abortive  attempts  to  eat  them,  were  (politi- 
cally speaking)  thrown  in  the  teeth  of  Sir  George  Hillyar,  at  the 
next  election,  by  a  radical  cobbler  who  compared  him  to  Foulon. 
At  five  o'clock,  the  body  not  having  been  found.  Sir  George 
Hillyar,  having  pre-determined  that  his  son  was  drowned,  gave 
'orders  for  the  cutting  of  the  big  dam,  not  without  slight  misgiv- 
ings that  he  was  making  a  fool  of  himself.     Then  the  fun  grew 
fast  and  furious.     This  was  better  than  the  fair  by  a  great  deal. 
They  brought  up  beer  in  large  stone-bottles  from  the  public- 
house,  and  enjoyed  themselves  thoroughly.     By  a  quarter  to  six 
the  lake  was  nearly  dry,  and  nearly  everybody  was  drunk.     At 
this  time  the  first  fish  was  caught;  a  young  man  ducked  into  the 
mud,  and  brought  out  a  ten-pound  carp  by  his  gills,  exclaiming, 
"  Here's  the  body.  Bill ! "  which  expression  passed  into  the  joke 
of  the  evening.     Every  time  a  fresh  carp,  tench,  or  pike,  was 
thrown  out  kicking  into  the  gravel,  the  young  men  would  roar 
out,  "  Here's  the  body.  Bill,"  once  more.    At  last  the  whole  affair 
approached  very  nearly  to  a  riot.     Women,  who  had  come  after 
their  husbands,  were  heard  here  and  there  scolding  or  shrieking. 
There  were  two  or  three  fights.     There  had  been  more  beer 
ordered  than  was  paid  for.     A  policeman  had  been  pushed  into 
the  mud.     But  no  body. 

The  butler,  coming  into  the  library  at  ten  o'clock  to  see  the 
windows  shut  against  the  loose  characters  who  were  hanging 
about,  discovered  the  body  of  Erne  Hillyar,  Esquire,  in  an  easy- 
chair,  reading  Blackwood's  Magazine  by  a  bedroom  candlestick. 
And  the  body  said,  "  I  say,  Simpson,  what  the  dense  is  all  that 
row  about  down  by  the  lake  ?  " 

"  They  have  cut  the  dam,  and  let  off  the  water  to  find  your 
body,  sir,"  replied  Simpson,  who  prided  himself  on  not  being 
taken  by  surprise. 

"  What  fools,"  said  Erne.    "  Is  the  Governor  in  a  great  wax  ?  " 

"  I  fancy  not  sir,  at  present^^  replied  Simpson. 


IIIE   IIILLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS.  51 

"Tell  him  I  wish  to  speak  to  him,  will  you,"  said  Erne,  turn- 
ing over  a  page.  "  Say  I  should  be  glad  of  a  word  with  him,  if 
he  will  be  good  enough  to  step  this  way."  And  so  he  went  on 
unconcernedly  reading;  and  Simj)Son,  who  had  a  profound  belief 
in  Erne,  went  to  Sir  George,  and  delivered  the  message  exactly 
as  Erne  had  given  it. 

Sir  George  came  raging  into  the  room  in  a  very  few  minutes. 
Erne  half-closed  his  book,  keeping  his  finger  in  the  place,  and, 
quietly  looking  up  at  his  father,  said, 

"I  am  afraid  you  expected  me  home  last  night,  my  dear  father." 

Sir  George  was  too  much  astounded  by  Erne's  coolness,  to  do 
more  than  gasp. 

''  I  hope  I  have  not  caused  you  any  anxiety.  But  the  fact  is 
this  ;  I  went  into  town  by  the  five  o'clock  train,  to  see  the 
Parkers  at  Brompton  ;  and  they  oftered  me  a  bed  (it  being  late), 
which  I  accepted.  I  went  for  a  ramble  this  morning,  which 
ended  in  my  walking  all  the  way  home  here  ;  and  that  is  what 
makes  me  so  late." 

"  You  seem  to  have  a  good  notion  of  disposing  of  your  own 
time,  without  notice,  sir,"  said  Sir  George,  who  had  been  so  as- 
tounded by  his  reception,  that  he  had  not  yet  had  time  to  lay  his 
hand  upon  his  wrath-bottle. 

"  Yes,  I  like  having  an  impromptu  ramble  of  this  kind.  It  is 
quite  a  new  experience  do  you  know,  dad,"  said  Erne,  speaking 
with  a  little  more  animation,  and  laying  aside  his  book  for  the 
first  time.  "  I  would  have  given  a  hundred  pounds  for  you  to 
have  been  with  me  to-day.  New  scenes  and  new  people  all  the 
way  home.  As  new  to  me  —  nay,  newer  and  fresher  —  than 
the  Sandwich  Islands  would  be.     I  wish  you  had  been  there." 

"  Does  n't  it  strike  you,  sir,  that  you  are  taking  this  matter 
somewhat  coolly  ?  "  said  Sir  George,  aghast. 

"  No  !  am  I  ? "  said  Erne.  "  That  is  a  compliment,  coming 
from  you,  dad.  How  often  have  you  told  me,  that  you  hated  a 
man  without  self-possession.  See  how  I  have  profited  by  your 
teaching  ?  " 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  sir,"  said  Sir  George,  finding  his  wrath- 
bottle,  and  drawing  the  cork.  "  Are  you  aware  that  the  dam  has 
been  cut  to  find  your  body  ?  Are  you  aware  of  that,  sir  ?  Do 
you  know,  sir,  that  the  populace  have,  in  the  excitement  conse- 
quent on  your  supposed  death,  overrun  my  pleasure-grounds, 
trampled  on  my  flower-beds,  broken  my  statues,  and  made  faces 
at  my  lawyer  through  my  drawing-room  window  ? " 

If  ever  you  try  a  torrent  of  invective,  for  heaven's  sake  steer 
clear  of  details,  lest  in  the  heat  of  your  speech  you  come  suddenly 
across  a  ridiculous  or  homely  image,  and,  rhetorically  speaking, 
ruin  yourself  at  once,  as  did  Sir  George  Hillyar  on  this  occasion. 


52  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

As  he  thundered  out  this  last  terrible  consequence  of  Erne's 
absence,  Erne  burst  out  laughing,  and  Sir  George,  intensely- 
delighted  at  getting  him  back  again  on  any  terms,  and  also  dying 
for  a  reconciliation,  burst  out  laughing  too,  and  held  out  his  arms. 
After  which  the  conversation  took  another  tone  ;  as  thus,  — 
"  Why  did  you  go  away,  and  never  give  me  notice,  my  boy  ?  " 
"  I  won't  do  it  again.     I  will  tell  you  next  time."     And  all 

that  sort  of  thing. 

*  ^  *  *  *  * 

"What  on  earth  has  come  over  the  boy?"  said  Sir  George 
Hillyar  to  himself  as  soon  as  he  was  in  bed,  lying  on  his  back, 
with  his  knees  up,  which  is  the  best  attitude  for  thinking  in  bed. 
"  He  will  make  a  debater,  that  boy,  sir,  mark  my  words.  I  tell 
you,  sir,"  continued  he,  angrily,  and  somewhat  rudely  contradict- 
ing himself, "  that  you  have  been  a  fool  about  that  boy.  The 
cool  way  in  which  he  turned  on  you  to-day,  sir,  and,  partly  by 
calculating  on  your  affection  for  him,  and  partly  by  native  tact 
and  self-possession,  silenced  you,  sir  —  got  his  own  way,  estab- 
lished a  precedent  for  going  out  when  he  chose,  and  left  you 
strongly  disinclined  to  risk  another  battle  —  was,  I  say,  sir,  mas- 
terly. 

After  a  time,  having  sufficiently  contradicted  and  bullied  him- 
self, he  turned  over  on  his  side,  and  said,  as  he  was  falling  to 
sleep,  — 

"  The  boy  is  wonderfully  changed  in  one  day.  He  shall  go 
again  if  he  chooses.  I  never  saw  such  a  change  in  my  life.  He 
never  showed  fight  like  this  before.  What  can  be  the  matter 
wath  him  ?  " 

The  old  complaint,  Sir  George.  The  boy  has  fallen  in  love. 
Nothing  else. 


CHAPTER    XI. 

THE  SECRETARY  SEES  NOTHING  FOR  IT  BUT  TO  SUBMIT. 

The  talk  of  the  colony,  for  a  week  or  so,  turned  upon  nothing 
else  but  the  gallant  exploit  of  Lieutenant  Hillyar  with  the  bush- 
rangers. He  became  the  hero  of  the  day.  His  orderly  persuaded 
him  to  have  his  hair  cut ;  and  the  locks  went  oif  like  smoke  at 
half-a-crown  apiece  ;  so  fast,  indeed,  that  the  supply  fell  short  of 
the  demand,  and  had  to  be  supplied  from  the  head  of  a  young 
Danish  trooper,  who,  after  this,  happening  to  get  drunk  in  Palm- 
ers ton,  while  in  plain  clothes,  and  not  being  recognized,  was 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  Till'    BURTONS.  53 

found  to  be  so  closely  cropped  tliat  it  was  necessary  to  remand 
him  for  inquiries,  as  it  was  obvious  to  tlie  meanest  capacity  that 
he  had  n't  been  out  of  jail  more  th;in  a  cou[)le  of  days. 

The  papers  had  leading  articles  upon  it.  Tlie  Palmerston  Sen- 
tinel (squatter*  interest,  conservative,  aristocratic,)  said  that  this 
was  your  old  English  blood,  and  that  there  was  nothing  like  it. 
The  Mohawk  (progress  of  the  species  and  small  farm  interest,) 
said,  on  the  other  hand,  that  this  Lieutenant  Ilillyar  was  one  of 
tliose  men  who  had  been  unjustly  hunted  out  of  his  native  land 
by  the  jealousy  of  an  accursed  and  corrupt  aristocracy,  in  conse- 
quence of  his  liberal  tendencies,  and  his  fellow-feeling  for  the  (so- 
called)  lower  orders.  And  this  abominable  Mohawh^  evidently 
possessed  of  special  knowledge,  in  trying  to  prove  the  habitual 
condescension  of  George  Ilillyar  towards  his  inferiors,  did  so 
rake  up  all  his  old  blackguardisms  that  Mr.  Secretary  Oxton  was 
as  near  mad  as  need  be. 
.  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  that,  wdien  poor  little  Gerty  Ne- 
ville heard  the  news,  George  Hillyar  was,  to  her,  transformed 
from  a  persecuted,  ill-used,  misunderstood  man,  into  a  triumphant 
hero.  She  threw  herself,  sobbing,  into  her  sister's  arms,  and 
said,  — 

"  Now,  Aggy  !  Now,  w^ho  was  right  ?  Was  not  I  wiser  than 
you,  my  sister  ?  My  noble  hero  !  Two  to  one,  Agnes,  and  he  is 
so  calm  and  modest  about  it.  Why,  James  and  you  were  blind. 
Did  not  /  see  what  he  was  ;  am  /  a  fool  ?  " 

Mrs.  Oxton  was  very  much  inclined  to  think  she  was.  She 
was  puzzled  by  this  undoubted  act  of  valor  on  George  Hillyar's 
part.  She  had  very  good  sense  of  her  own,  and  the  most  pro- 
found belief  in  one  of  the  cleverest  men  in  the  world,  —  her 
husband.  Her  husband's  distrust  of  the  man  had  reacted  on  her ; 
so,  in  the  midst  of  Gerty's  wild  enthusiasm,  she  could  only  hope 
that  things  would  go  right,  though  she  tried  to  be  enthusiastic  for 
Gerty's  sake. 

Things  were  very  near  going  right  just  now.  The  Secretary 
and  his  wife  knew  too  little  of  their  man.  The  man's  antece- 
dents w^ere  terribly  bad,  but  the  man  had  fallen  in  love,  and  be- 
come a  hero  within  a  very  few  months.  The  Secretary  knew 
men  well  enough,  and  knew  how  seldom  they  reformed  after 
they  had  gone  as  far  as  (he  feared)  Lieutenant  Hillyar  had 
gone.  Both  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Oxton  were  inclined  to  distrust  and 
oppose  him  still,  in  spite  of  his  act  of  heroism. 

*  The  "squatters"  of  Australia  are  the  great  pastoral  aristocrats,  who  lease 
immense  tracts  from  government  for  pasturage.  Some  of  tliem  are  immensely 
wealthy.  I  speak  from  recollection,  when  I  say  that  one  of  Dr.  Kerr's  stations, 
on  the  Darling  downs,  when  sold  in  1854,  contained  102,000  sheep,  whose  value 
at  that  time  was  about  255.  a  piece.  An  improvement  on  Suville  Row,  de- 
cidedly. 


54  THE  HILLYAKS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

But  the  man  himself  meant  well  There  was  just  enough 
goodness  and  manhood  left  in  him  to  fall  in  love  with  Gerty  Ne- 
ville :  and  a  kind  of  reckless,  careless  pluck  which  had  been  a 
characteristic  of  him  in  his  boyhood,  liad  still  remained  to  him. 
It  had  been  latent,  exhibiting  itself  only  in  causeless  quarrels 
and  headlong  gaming,  until  it  had  been  turned  into  a  proper 
channel  by  his  new  passion,  the  only  serious  one  of  his  life. 
The  one  cau-e  combined  with  the  other;  golden  opportunity 
came  in  his  way :  and  suddenly  he,  who  had  been  a  distrusted 
and  despised  man  all  his  life,  found  himself  a  hero,  beloved  by 
the  beauty  of  the  community,  with  every  cloud  cleared  away 
from  the  future ;  a  man  whose  name  was  mentioned  by  every 
mouth  with  enthusiastic  praise.  It  was  a  glimj^se  of  heaven. 
His  eye  grew  brighter,  his  bearing  more  majestic,  his  heart 
softer  towards  his  fellow-creatures.  He  was  happy  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life.  As  the  poor  godless  fellow  put  it  to  himself,  his 
luck  had  turned  at  last. 

But  we  must  go  a  little  way  back  in  our  story.  While  he  and 
Mr.  Oxton  were  still  trying  to  make  the  wounded  cadet  comfort- 
able, assistance  arrived,  and  it  was  announced  that  the  other 
bush-rangers  were  captured.  (The  cadet  recovered,  my  dear 
madam,  and  is  now  the  worthy  and  highly  respected  chief  com- 
missioner of  police  for  Cooksland.)  So  the  Secretary  and  the 
Lieutenant  rode  away  together. 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what  I  would  do,  Hillyar,"  said  the  Secretary ; 
"  I  should  ride  down  to  Pahnerston  as  quick  as  I  could,  and  re- 
port this  matter  at  head-quarters  ;  you  will  probably  get  your  In- 
spectorship,—  I  shall  certainly  see  that  you  do.  And  I  tell  you 
what,  I  shall  go  with  you  myself.  I  must  talk  over  this  with  the 
Governor  at  once.  We  can  get  on  to  my  house  to-night,  and  I 
shall  be  pleased  to  see  you  as  my  guest." 

"  That  is  very  kind  of  you,"  said  Hillyar. 

"  I  cannot  conceal  from  you,"  said  the  Secretary,,  with  emj)ha- 
eis,  "  that  I  am  aware  of  your  having  proposed  yourself  lor  my 
brother-in-law." 

"  I  supposed  you  would  know  it  by  this  time.  I  have  laid  my 
fortune  and  my  title  at  Miss  Neville's  feet,  and  have  been  ac- 
cepted." 

"  O  Lord ! "  said  the  Secretary,  as  if  he  had  a  sudden  twinge 
of  toothache,  "I  know  all  about  it.  It  is  not  your  fortune  nor 
your  title  I  want  to  talk  about.  What  sort  of  a  name  can  you 
give  her  ?  Can  you  give  her  an  unsullied  name  ?  I  ask  you  as 
a  man  of  the  world,  can  you  do  that  ? " 

"  As  a  man  of  the  world,  hey  ?  "  said  the  Lieutenant ;  "  then, 
as  a  man  of  the  world,  I  should  say  that  Miss  Gertrude  Neville 
had  made  a  far  better  catch  than  any  of  her  sisters ;  even  a  bet- 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  55 

ter  catch,  saving  your  presence,  than  her  sister  Agnes.  Such  ia 
the  idiotic  state  of  English  society,  tliat  a  baronet  of  old  creation 
with  ten  thousand  a  year,  and  a  handsome  lady-like  wife,  will  bo 
more  repanda  in  London  than  a  mere  colonial  official,  whose 
rank  is  so  little  known  in  that  benighted  city,  that  on  his  last 
visit,  the  Mayor  of  Palmerston  was  sent  down  to  dinner  before 
him  at  Lady  Noahsark's.  If  you  choose  to  put  it  as  a  man  of 
the  world,  tiicre  you  are." 

''  The  fellow  don't  want  for  wit,"  thought  the  Secretary.  "  I 
have  got  the  dor  this  time."     But  he  answered  promptly,  — 

"  That  is  all  very  fine,  Hillyar ;  but  you  are  under  a  cloud,  you 
know." 

"  I  must  request  you,  once  and  forever,  sir,  not  to  repeat  that 
assertion.  I  am  under  no  cloud.  I  was  fast  and  reckless  in 
England,  and  I  have  been  fast  and  reckless  here.  I  shall  be  so 
DO  longer.  I  have  neglected  my  police  duties  somewhat,  though 
not  so  far  as  to  receive  anything  more  than  an  admonition. 
What  man,  finding  himself  an  heir-expectant  to  a  baronetcy  and 
a  fortune,  would  not  neglect  this  miserable  drudgery.  What 
young  fellow,  receiving  an  allowance  of  three  hundred  a  year, 
would  have  submitted  to  the  drudgery  of  a  cadetship  for  four- 
teen months?     Answer  me  that,  sir?" 

The  Secretary  couldn't  answer  that,  but  he  thought,  —  "I 
wonder  why  he  did  it  ?  I  never  thought  of  that  before."  He 
said  aloud,  "  Your  case  certainly  looks  better  than  it  did,  Hill- 
yar."^ 

"  Now  hear  me  out,"  said  George  Hillyar.  "  My  history  is 
soon  told.  When  I  was  seven  years  old  my  mother  —  Well, 
sir,  look  the  other  way,  —  she  bolted.'^ 

^'  0,  dear,  dear  me,"  said  the  Secretary.  "  0,  pray  don't  go 
on,  sir.     I  am  so  very  sorry,  Hillyar." 

"  Bolted,  sir,"  repeated  George,  with  an  angry  snarl,  "  and  left 
me  to  be  hated  worse  than  poison  by  my  father  in  consequence. 
How  do  you  like  that?" 

There  was  a  mist  in  the  good  Secretary's  eyes ;  and  in  that 
mist  he  saw  the  dear,  happy  old  manor-house  in  Worcestershire ; 
a  dark,  mysterious,  solemn  house,  beneath  the  shadowing  elms  ; 
the  abode  of  gentle,  graceful,  domestic  love  for  centuries.  And 
he  saw  a  bent  figure  with  a  widow's  cap  upon  her  gray  hair, 
which  wandered  still  among  the  old  flower-beds,  and  thought  for 
many  an  hour  in  the  autumn  day,  whether  her  brave  son  would 
return  from  his  honor  and*  wealth,  in  far  off  Australia,  and  give 
her  one  sweet  kiss,  before  she  lay  down  to  sleep  beside  his 
father,  in  the  quiet  churchyard  in  the  park. 

"  No  more,  sir ! "  said  the  Secretary.  "  Not  another  word.  I 
ask  your  pardon.     Be  silent." 

George  would  not. 


56  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  That  is  my  history.  The  reason  I  stayed  in  the  police  at 
all,  was  that  I  might  stand  well  with  my  fiither ;  that  he  might 
not  think  I  had  gone  so  utterly  to  the  devil  as  he  wished :  for  he 
married  again,  —  married  a  milkmaid,  or  worse,  —  to  spite  me. 
And  the  son  he  had  by  her  is,  according  to  all  accounts,  idolized, 
while  I  am  left  here  to  fight  my  way  alone.  I  hate  that  boy, 
and  I  will  make  him  feel  it." 

His  case  would  have  stood  better  without  this  last  outbreak 
of  temper  which  jarred  sharply  on  the  Secretary's  sentimental 
mood.  But  he  had  made  his  case  good.  The  fight  was  over. 
That  night  he  was  received  at  the  Secretary's  station  as  an  ac- 
cepted suitor.  The  next  he  dined  at  Government  House,  and 
sat  all  the  evening  in  a  corner  with  Lady  Rumbolt  (the  Gov- 
ernor's wife),  and  talked  of  great  people  in  England,  about 
whom  he  knew  just  enough  to  give  her  ladyship  an  excuse  for 
talking  about  them,  which  she  liked  better  than  anything  in  the 
world,  after  gardening  and  driving.  So  nothing  could  be  more 
charming ;  and  the  Secretary,  seeing  that  it  was  no  use  to  strug- 
gle, gave  it  up,  and  determined  to  offer  no  opposition  to  the  mar- 
riage of  his  sister-in-law  to  a  man  who  would  be  a  wealthy 
baronet  in  England. 

And  this  is  what  made  him  so  excessively  mad  about  those 
abominable,  indiscreet  leaders  in  the  Mohawk,  in  praise  of  the 
gallant  Lieutenant.  He  had  used  strong  language  about  the  Mo- 
hawk continually,  ever  since  the  first  number  appeared,  in  the 
early  days  of  the  colony,  printed  on  whitey-brown  sugar-paper, 
•with  a  gross  libel  upon  himself  in  the  first  six  lines  of  its  leader. 
But  it  was  nothing  to  the  language  he  used  now.  Mr.  Edward 
Fitzgerald  Emmet,  the  editor  of  the  Mohawk,  found  out  that  he 
was  annoying  the  Secretary,  and  continued  his  allusions  in  a 
more  offensive  form.  Until,  so  says  report,  Miss  Lesbia  Burke 
let  him  know  that,  if  he  continued  to  annoy  James  Oxton,  she 
would  horsewhip  him.     Whereupon  the  Mohawk  was  dumb. 


m 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  57 


CHAPTER    XII. 

DISPOSES  OF  SAMUEL  BURTON  FOR  A  TIME. 

The  eveiiinj]:  after  the  fis^lit  with  the  bnsh-ranQ;ers,  tlic  affair 
was  getting  noisily  discussed  in  the  principal  men's  hut  at  the 
Barker's.  The  Large  room,  earth-tioored,  with  walls  and  roof  of 
wood,  colored  by  the  smoke  to  a  deep  mahogany,  was  lit  up  by 
the  miglity  blaze  of  a  wood-fire  in  the  great  chimney  at  one  end, 
for  the  south  wind  had  come  up,  and  the  night  was  chilly.  Five 
or  six  men  were  seated  on  logs  and  stools  round  the  chimney, 
eating  their  supper,  and  one,  who  had  finished  his,  had  got  into 
bed,  and  was  comfortably  smoking  and  joining  in  the  conversa- 
tion. They  were  an  honest,  good-looking  set  of  fellows  enough, 
for  in  Cooksland  and  South  Australia,  the  convict  element  is  very 
small ;  and  the  appearance  of  rude  plenty  and  honest  comfort 
which  was  over  the  whole  scene,  was  pleasant  enough  to  witness 
by  a  belated  and  wearied  traveller. 

Such  a  one  came  to  the  door  that  evening,  and  brought  his  evil 
face  among  them.  It  was  the  convict  that  the  Secretary  had 
passed  on  the  sands ;  it  was  Samuel  Burton. 

The  cattle  and  sheep  dogs,  which  lay  about  in  the  yard,  bayed 
him  furiously,  but  he  passed  through  them  unheeding,  and,  open- 
ing the  door,  stood  in  the  entry,  saying': 

"  Can  I  stay  here  to-night,  mates?" 

"Surely,"  said  the  old  hut-keeper,  shading  his  face  with  his 
hand.  "  Yoii  must  be  a  stranger  to  Barker's,  to  ask  such  a  ques- 
tion.    Come  in,  lad." 

The  young  man  who  was  setting  in  the  best  place  by  the  fire, 
got  up  to  give  it  to  him.  Each  one  of  the  men  murmured  a  wel- 
come to  him  as  he  came-  towards  the  fire ;  and  then,  as  the  fire- 
light fell  upon  his  face,  they  saw  that  he  was  a  convict. 

Now  and  then  you  will  find  a  jail-bird  who  will,  in  appear- 
ance, pass  muster  among  honest  men  ;  but  in  this  case  the  word 
"  Old  hand  "  was  too  plainly  written  on  the  face  to  be  mistaken. 
They  insensibly  altered  their  demeanor  towards  him  at  once.  To 
their  kind  hospitality,  which  had  been  offered  to  him  before  they 
saw  what  he  was,  was  now  added  respectful  deference,  and  a 
scarcely  concealed  desire  to  propitiate.  Seven  honest  good  fel- 
lows, were  respectfully  afraid  of  one  rogue ;  and  the  rogue  was 
jierfectly  aware  of  the  fact,  and  treated  them  accordingly ;  much 
as  a  hawk  would  treat  a  cote-full  of  pigeons,  if  he  found  it  conve- 
3* 


58  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

nient  to  pass  the  night  among  them.  The  penniless,  tattered 
felon  was  a  sort  of  lord  among  them. 

Attribute  it  to  what  you  will,  it  is  so.  A  better  set  of  fellows 
than  the  honest  emigrants,  generally,  don't  exist ;  but  their  super- 
stitious respect  for  an  old  convict  is  almost  pitiable.  I  fancy,  if 
the  Devil  were  to  take  it  into  his  head  to  make  thirteenth  at  a 
dinner-party,  that  we  should  be  studiously  polite  to  him,  till  we 
had  got  rid  of  him  ;  and  be  careful  not  to  wound  his  feelings  by 
any  allusion  to  the  past. 

They  put  food  and  tea  before  him,  and  he  ate  and  drank  vora- 
ciously. The  hut-keeper  did  not  wait  to  ask  him  if  he  had 
tobacco :  to  extort  from  him  what  is  the  last,  most  humiliating 
confession  of  destitution,  in  the  bush  ;  but,  seeing  him  look  round, 
put  a  fig  and  a  pipe  in  his  hand.  After  he  had  lit  it,  he  began  to 
talk  for  the  first  time. 

"  I  suppose,"  he  said,  "none  of  you  chaps  know  the  names  of 
the  fellows  who  got  bailed  up  by  young  Hillyar  this  morning  ?  " 

The  hut-keeper  answered,  —  a  quiet,  gentle  old  man,  whom 
the  others  called  Daddy, — 

"  I  knew  two  on  'em.  There  was  Mike  Tiernay.  He  was 
assigned  to  Carstairs  on  the  North  Esk  one  time,  I  mind." 

"  Hallo !  "  said  Burton.     "  Are  yo?/.  Stringy  Bark  ?  " 

"  I  am  from  Van  Diemen's  Land,"  said  the  old  man,  quietly. 
"  But  an  emigrant." 

The  convict  gave  a  grunt  of  disappointment. 

"  The  other  one  I  knew,"  continued  the  old  man,  "  was  Wallaby 
Thompson." 

It  is  curious  that  the  old  man  had,  before  the  arrival  of  Burton, 
been  entertaining  the  young  men  with  the  lives  and  crimes  of 
these  abominable  blackguards.  Now,  before  the  representative 
of  their  class,  he  spoke  as  though  it  were  a  liberty  to  mention 
the  gentlemen's  names. 

"  Wallaby  Thompson,  eh  ?  "  said  the  convict.  "  He  was  an 
honest,  good  fellow,  and  I  am  sorry  for  him.  I  never  knew  that 
fellow  do  a  bad  action  in  my  life.  He  was  as  true  as  steel.  Old 
Carboys  sent  his  mate  for  trial,  and  old  Carboys  was  found  in  the 
bush  with  his  throat  cut.     That's  what  /call  a  man." 

Burton  was  showing  off  before  these  emigrants  for  purposes  of 
his  own.  Cutting  throats  was  not  his  special  temptation  ;  and  he, 
probably,  never  saw  Wallaby  Thompson,  Esq.,  in  his  life  ;  in  fact, 
his  claiminjg;  acquaintance  with  that  gentleman  was  strong  evi- 
dence that  he  knew  nothing  about  him  ;  he  being  a  mere  liar  and 
rogue,  not  dangerous  unless  desperate.  But  he  took  these  simple 
emigrants  in  by  a  clever  imitation  of  a  bush-ranger's  ferocity,  and 
they  believed  in  him. 

"  Is  young  Hillyar  at  tlie  station  here,  or  at  the  barracks,  to- 
night ? "  he  asked. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  59 

"The  Lieutenant  ir  gone  clown  to  Palmerston,  tli is  morning, 
with  the  Seeretary,"  was  the  answer. 

Burton  was  evidently  stagiiered  by  this  intellij^ence.  lie  kept 
his  countenance,  however,  and  asked,  as  coolly  as  he  could,  when 
he  was  expected  back. 

"  Back  ! "  said  the  old  man ;  "  Lord  love  you,  he  '11  never  come 
back  here  no  more.  At  any  rate,  lie  '11  be  made  Inspector  for  this 
job ;  and  so  you  won't  see  him  here  a^ain." 

"  How  far  is  it  to  Palmerston  ?  "  asked  Burton. 

"  Two  hundred  and  thirty  miles." 

He  said  nothing  in  answer  to  thi«.  He  sat  and  thought  as  he 
smoked.  Two  hundred  and  thirty  miles !  He  penniless  and 
shoeless,  not  in  the  best  of  health,  having  the  dread  of  a  return 
of  dysentery!  It  could  not  be  done,  —  it  could  not  be  done.  He 
must  take  service,  and  then  it  could  not  be  done  for  six  months  ; 
he  could  not  sign  for  less  time  than  that.  He  could  have  cursed 
his  ill  luck,  but  he  was  not  given  to  cursing  on  occasions  where 
thought  was  required.  He  made  his  determination  at  once,  and 
acted  on  it ;  in  spite  of  that  curious  pinched-up  lower  jaw  of  his  ; 
with  quite  as  much  deci.iion  as  would  his  old  master  and  enemy, 
Sir  George  Hillyar,  with  his  broad,  bull-dog  jowl. 

"  Are  there  any  of —  my  sort —  here  about  ?  "  he  asked,  with 
an  affectedly  surly  growl. 

There  is  no  euphemism  invented  yet  for  the  word  "  convict,'* 
which  is  available  among  the  laboring  class  of  Australia,  when  a 
convict  is  present.  Those  who  think  they  know  something  of 
them,  might  fancy  that  "  Old  hand,"  Vandemonian,"  or  even 
"  Sydney  Sider,"  were  not  particularly  offensive.  Those  who 
know  them  better  know  that  the  use  of  either  three  expressions, 
in  the  presence  of  one  of  these  sensitive  gentlemen,  means  instant 
assault  and  battery.  None  of  the  hands  in  the  hut  would  have 
ventured  on  anything  of  the  kind  for  worlds,  but  now  Burton  had 
put  it  in  his  owm  form,  and  must  be  answered. 

It  appeared  that  there  was  a  hoary  old  miscreant  of  a  shep- 
herd, who  was,  if  the  expression  might  be  allowed,  "  Strinuy 
Bark,"  and  who  had  quarrelled  with  his  hut-keeper.  Burton 
said  he  would  see  about  it,  and  did  so,  the  next  day.  Barker 
pere,  a  fine  old  fellow,  was  of  opinion  that  if  you  were  unfortu- 
nate enough  to  have  one  convict  on  the  place,  it  was  better  that 
you  should  catch  another  to  bear  him  company.  He  therefore 
was  not  sorry  to  avail  himself  of  Samuel  Burton's  services,  in  the 
capacity  of  hut-keeper  to  the  old  convict-shepherd  he  had  on  the 
run  already. 

"  Confound  'em,"  said  old  Barker ;  "  shut  'em  up  together,  and 
let  'em  corrupt  one  another.  I  am  glad  this  scoundrel  has  come 
to  ask  for  work.     I  should  have  had  to  send  old  Tom  about  his 


60  THE  IIILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

business  if  lie  had  n't,  and  old  Tom  is  the  best  shepherd  I've  got ; 
but  I  never  could  have  asked  an  honest  man  to  cook  for  old  Tom. 
No.  The  appearance  of  this  fellow  is  a  special  providence.  I 
■should  have  had  to  send  old  Tom  to  the  riirht-about." 

So  Samuel  Burton,  by  reason  of  the  badness  of  his  shoes,  and 
a  general  seediness  of  character,  had  to  take  service  with  Mr. 
Barker.  He  had  met  with  a  disappointment  in  not  meeting  with 
George  Hill  jar,  but  on  the  whole  he  was  not  sorry  to  get  a 
chance  of  lying  by  for  a  little.  The  fact  was  that  he  had,  six 
weeks  before  tliis,  lost  his  character,  and  travelling  was  not  safe 
for  a  time.  He  had.  been  transported  and  reconvicted  in  the 
colony,  but  his  character  had  been  good  until,  as  I  say,  six  weeks 
before  this,  when  he  turned  Queen's  evidence  on  the  great  bank 
forgery  case.  That  act  not  only  ruined  his  character,  (among 
the  convicts  I  mean,  of  course,)  but  rendered  travelling  in  lonely 
places,  for  a  time,  before  men  had  had  time  to  forget,  a  danger- 
ous business.  Therefore  he  accepted  Mr.  Barker's  service  with 
alacrity,  and  so  George  Hillyar  heard  nothing  of  him  for  six 
peaceful  months. 


CHAPTER    XIII. 

JAMES  BURTON'S  STORY :   THE  GOLDEN  THREAD  BEGINS  TO  RUN 

OFF   THE  REEL. 

Could  one  ever  have  been  happy  in  such  a  squalid  unroman- 
tic  place  ?  Among  such  sounds,  such  smells,  such  absence  of 
fresh  air  and  sunshine,  with  poverty  and  vulgarity  in  its  grossest 
forms  on  every  side  of  one,  —  shrill  Doll  Tearsheet,  distinctly  and 
painfully  audible  round  the  corner,  telling  the  nuthook  that  he 
had  lied,  and  that  sort  of  thing,  jiU  day  long  ;  and  Pistol,  the 
cutpurse,  ruflling  and  bullying  it  under  the  gas-lamp  by  the 
corner,  from  cockshoot  to  curfew,  at  which  latter  time  we  used 
to  be  rid  of  him  for  an  hour  or  so  ?  Could  any  one  have  had  a 
happy  home  amidst  all  this  squalor  and  blackguardism  ?  And 
could  any  one,  having  gained  wealth  and  honor,  ever  feel  a  long- 
ing kindness  for  the  old,  for  the  cramiied  horizon,  and  the  close 
atmosphere,  of  the  place  one  once  called  home  ? 

Yes.  I  often  feel  it  now.  The  other  day  the  summer  wind 
was  still,  and  the  summer  clouds  slejit  far  aloft,  above  the  highest 
boughs  of  the  silent  forest ;  and  peace  and  silence  were  over 
everything  as  I  rode  slowly  on  among  the  clustering  flowers. 


Tin:  IIILLYAHS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  CI 

And  then  ami  there  the  old  Chelsea  life  came  back  into  my  soul 
and  pervaded  it  completely,  and  the  past  drove  out  the  present  so 
utterly  and  entirely  that,  although  my  mortal  body  —  which, 
when  no  longer  useful,  must  perish  and  rot,  like  one  of  the  fallen 
logs  around  me  —  was  pa-sing  through  the  glorious  Australian 
forest,  yet  the  immortal  part  of  me  had  travelled  back  into  the 
squalid  old  street,  and  /was  there  once  again. 

Dear  old  place !  I  can  love  it  still.  I  were  but  an  ingrate  if 
I  could  not  love  it  better  than  all  other  places.  After  we  had 
been  out  here  ten  years,  Joe  went  back  on  business,  and  went  to 
see  it.  A  certain  change,  which  we  shall  hear  of,  had  taken 
place  ;  the  old  neighbors  were  gone,  and  Chelsea,  so  far  as  we 
ciu-ed  about  it,  was  desolate.  But,  as  Joe  leant  lonely  against 
the  railings  in  the  new  Paul  ton  Square,  he  heard  a  cry  coming 
from  towards  the  river,  which  thrilled  to  his  heart  as  he  came 
nearer  and  nearer.  What  was  it,  think  you.  It  was  old  Alsop, 
the  fishmonger,  bawling  out,  as  of  old,  the  audacious  falsehood 
that  his  soles  were  alive.  It  was  nothing  more  than  that,  but  it 
was  the  last  of  the  old  familiar  Chelsea  sounds  which  was  left. 
When  Joe  told  us  this  story  we  were  all  (simple  souls)  very 
much  moved.  My  father  said,  huskily,  that  '•  there  were  worse 
chaps  than  Bill  Alsop,  mind  you,  though  he  did  not  uphoklhim 
in  all  things,"  which  I  w\as  glad  to  hear.  As  for  my  mother, 
she  dissolved  into  such  a  flood  of  tears  that  the  recently -invented 
pocket-handkerchief  was  abandoned  as  useless,  and  the  old  fa- 
miliar apron  was  adopted  instead.  Such  is  the  force  of  habit, 
that  my  mother  cannot  cry  comfortably  without  an  apron.  The 
day  I  was  married,  Emma  had  a  deal  of  trouble  with  her  on  this 
account.  It  was  evident  that  she  wanted  to  wipe  her  eyes  on 
her  horribly  expensive  mauve  satin  gown,  and  at  last  com- 
promised the  matter  by  crying  into  her  black  lace  shawl,  which 
was  of  about  as  much  use  as  a  fishing  net,  God  bless  her. 

I  have,  as  I  have  said,  an  affection  for  the  old  place  still ;  and, 
when  I  think  of  it  at  its  brightest,  when  I  love  it  best  of  all,  it 
comes  back  to  me  on  a  fine  September  evening,  on  the  evening 
after  Joe  and  I  met  with  our  wonderful  adventures  at  Stanlake. 

I  think  I  have  mentioned  before  that  my  father  used  to  relieve 
me  in  the  shop  when  he  had  done  his  tea ;  and  so  I  used  to  have 
my  tea  after  all  the  others  had  done,  —  at  which  times  my  sister 
and  I  used  to  have  a  pleasant  talk,  while  she  waited  on  me. 

Latterly  1  had  always  had  a  companion.  It  was  an  unfortu- 
nate business,  but  my  brother  Harry  had  acquired  a  sort  of  habit 
of  getting  kept  in  at  school,  nearly  every  day.  My  mother  con- 
trived a  meeting  with  the  school-master,  and  asked  him  why. 
The  answer  was,  that  he  was  a  good  little  fellow,  but  that  he 
would  di-uw   on   his  slate.     The   evening   next   after   she   had 


62  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

gained  tliis  intelligence,  we,  all  sitting  round  the  fire  and  ex- 
pecting to  hear  the  story  of  how  my  father  came  home  tipsy  the 
night  the  Reform  Bill  was  passed,  were  astonished  to  find  that 
my  mother  had  composed,  and  was  prepared  with,  an  entirely 
new  story,  in  the  awful-example  style  of  fiction,  which  she  there 
and  then  told  us.  It  appeai-ed  that  she  knew  a  little  girl  (mark 
how  she  wrapped  it  up)  as  drew  on  her  slate,  and  was  took  with 
the  chalkstone  gout  in  the  jints  of  her  fingers.  And,  while  that 
child  was  a  droring,  the  chalkstones  kep'  dropping  from  her 
knuckles,  and  the  children  kep'  picking  on  'em  up  and  drawing 
devils  on  the  desks.  Harry  was  at  the  time  both  alarmed  and 
distressed  at  this  story.  But  it  had  no  effect.  The  next  day 
he  drew  a  devil  so  offensive  that  he  was  not  only  kept  in,  but 
caned. 

So  Harry,  being  late  from  school,  was  my  companion  at  tea, 
and  sat  beside  me.  Frank,  who  adored  Harry  because  Harry 
used  to  morphise  Frank's  dreams  for  him  on  slates  and  bits  of 
paper,  stayed  with  him.  Fred,  the  big-headed,  who  was  brought 
into  the  world  apparently  to  tumble  down  stairs,  and  to  love  and 
cuddle  everybody  he  met,  sat  on  my  knee  and  pulled  my  hair  in 
a  contemplative  way ;  while  Emma  sat  beside  me  sewing,  and 
softly  murmured  out  the  news  of  the  day,  carefully  avoiding  any 
mention  of  the  Avery  catastrophe. 

Mr.  Pistol  and  Mr.  Bardolph  had  been  took  by  the  police  for 
a  robbery  in  the  Fulham  Road,  and  Mrs.  Quickly  was  ready  to 
swear  on  her  Bible  oath,  that  they  were  both  in  bed  and  asleep 
at  the  time.  Polly  Ager  had  been  kept  in  at  school  for  pinch- 
ing Sally  Holmes.  Tom  Cole  was  going  to  row  for  Dogget's 
coat  and  badge,  &c.,  &c. 

Frank  told  us,  that  the  evening  before  last  he  had  walked  on 
to  Battersea  Bridge  with  Jerry  Chittle,  and  to  the  westward  he 
had  seen  in  the  sky,  just  at  sunset,  an  array  of  giants,  dressed  in 
purple  and  gold,  pursuing  another  army  of  giants  dressed  in  gray, 
who,  as  the  sun  went  down,  seemed  to  turn  on  their  pursuers. 
He  said  that  the  thunder-storm  which  happened  that  night  was 
no  thunder-storm  at  all,  but  the  battle  of  these  two  armies  of 
giants  over  our  heads.  He  requested  Harry  to  draw  this  scene 
for  him  on  his  slate,  which  Harry  found  a  ditliculty  in  doing. 

I  was  thinking  whether  or  no  I  could  think  of  anything  to  say 
concerning  this  giant  story,  and  was  coming  to  the  conclusion 
that  I  could  n't,  wlien  I  looked  up  and  saw  Erne  Hillyar  and 
Joe  in  the  doorway. 

I  saw  Erne's  noble  face  light  up  as  he  saw  me.  "  Here  he 
is  "  was  all  he  said ;  but,  from  the  way  he  said  it,  I  knew  'that 
he  had  come  after  me. 

I  stood  up,  I  remember,  and  touched  my  forehead,  but  he  came 


THE   IIILLVARS   AND   THE   BURTONS.  63 

quickly  towards  mc  and  took  my  hand.  "I  want  to  1)C  friends 
with  you,  Jim,"  he  said  ;  "I  know  you  and  I  shall  suit  one  an- 
other.    Let  me  come  and  see  you  sometimes." 

I  did  not  know  what  to  say,  at  least  not  in  words ;  but  as  lie 
took  my  hand,  my  eyes  must  have  bid  him  welcome,  for  he 
laughed  and  said,  "  That  is  right.  I  knew  you  would  like  me,  I 
saw  it  yesterday." 

And  then  he  turned  on  Emma,  who  was  standing,  respectful 
and  still,  beside  me,  with  her  hands  closed  before  her,  holding  her 
work.  And  their  eyes  met ;  and  Erne  loved  her,  and  has  never 
loved  any  other  woman  since. 

"  This  must  be  your  sister,"  said  Erne.  "  There  is  no  doubt 
about  that.     Jim's  sister,  will  you  shake  hands  with  me  ?  " 

She  shook  hands  with  him,  and  smiled  her  gentlest,  kindest 
smile  in  his  face. ' 

"  I  am  so  glad,"  she  said,  "  that  you  want  to  make  friends  with 
Jim.     You  cannot  have  a  better  friend  than  he,  sir." 

Here  Joe  came  back,  and  whispered  to  me  that  he  had  been  to 
father,  and  told  him  that  a  young  gentleman  had  come  to  see  me, 
and  that  father  had  said  I  was  to  stay  where  I  was.  So  there 
we  children  sat  all  together ;  Erne  on  one  side  of  me,  and  Emma 
on  the  other,  talking  about  such  things  as  children  (for  we  were 
but  little  more)  will  talk  about,  —  Erne  sometimes  leaning  over 
me  to  speak  to  Emma,  and  waiting  eagerly  for  her  answer.  Fred 
got  on  his  knee,  and  twined  his  little  fingers  into  his  curling  hair, 
and  laid  his  big  head  upon  Erne's  shoulder.  Frank  and  Harry 
drew  their  stools  to  his  feet,  and  listened.  We  were  a  happy 
group.  Since  the  wild,  petulant  Earl  had  built  that  great  house, 
nigh  three  hundred  years  before,  and  had  paced,  and  fumed,  and 
fretted  up  and  dow^n  that  self-same  floor,  there  never  had  been 
gathered,  I  dare  swear,  a  happier  group  of  children  under  the 
time-stained  rafters  of  that  room,  than  were  we  that  night  in  the 
deepening  twilight. 

Joe  and  Erne  talked  most.  Joe  spoke  of  the  wonderful  old 
church  hard  by,  a  city  of  the  mighty  dead,  and  their  monuments, 
where  there  were  innumerable  dark,  dim  recesses,  crowded  by 
tombs  and  effigies.  Here  lay  the  headless  trunk  of  Sir  Thomas 
More,  —  not  under  the  noble  monument  erected  by  himself  in 
the  chancel  before  his  death,  but  "  neare  the  middle  of  the  soutli 
wall,"  —  indebted  to  a  stranger  for  a  simple  slab  over  his  re- 
mains. In  this  chapel,  too,  knelt  the  Duchess  of  North uml)er- 
land,  with  her  five  daughters,  all  with  clasped  hands,  praying  for 
the  soul  of  their  unhappy  father.  One  of  them,  Joe  could  not 
tell  which,  must  have  married  Arthur  Pole.  Here  lay  Lord 
and  Lady  Dacre,  with  their  dogs  watching  at  their  feet,  un- 
der their  many-colored  canopy ;  and  last,  not  least,  here  knelt 


64  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

John  Hillyar,  Esq.,  father  of  the  first  baronet,  with  his  three 
simple-looking  sons  in  ruffs,  opposite  his  wife  Eleanor,  with  her 
six  daughters,  and  her  two  dead  babies  on  the  cushion  before 
her. 

"  Four  hundred  years  of  memory,"  continued  Joe,  "  are 
crowded  into  that  dark  old  church,  and  the  great  flood  of  change 
beats  round  the  walls,  and  shakes  the  door  in  vain,  but  never 
enters.  The  dead  stand  thick  together  there,  as  if  to  make  a 
brave  resistance  to  the  moving  world  outside,  which  jars  upon 
their  slumber.  It  is  a  church  of  the  dead.  I  cannot  fancy  any 
one  being  married  in  that  church,  —  its  air  would  chill  the  bold- 
est bride  that  ever  walked  to  the  altar.  No  ;  it  is  a  place  for 
old  people  to  creep  into,  and  pray,  until  their  prayer  is  answered, 
and  they  sleep  with  the  rest." 

"  Hallo  1 "  I  said  to  myself,  "  Hal-lo  !  this  is  the  same  young 
gentleman  who  said  of  Jerry  Chittle  yesterday,  '  That  it  worn't 
no  business  of  his'n,'  and  would  probably  do  so  again  to-morrow 
if  necessary."  Both  Emma  and  I  had  noticed  lately  that  Joe 
had  two  distinct  ways  of  speaking ;  this  last  was  the  best  exam- 
ple of  his  later  style  that  we  had  yet  heard.  The  young  eagle 
was  beginning  to  try  his  wings. 

Then  Erne  began  to  talk.  "  Did  you  know,  Jim  and  Joe,  that 
this  Church  Place  belonged  to  us  before  the  Sloane  Stanleys 
bousrht  it  ?  " 

Joe  had  been  told  so  by  Mr.  Faulkner. 

"  It  seems  so  very  strange  to  find  you  living  here,  Jim.  So 
very  strange.  Do  you  know  that  my  father  never  will  mention 
the  name  of  the  house." 

"  Why  not,  sir  !  "  I  asked  wondering. 

"  Why,  my  gentle  Hammersmith,  it  has  been  such  a  singu- 
hirly  unlucky  house  to  all  who  have  lived  in-  it.  Do  you  know 
why?" 

I  could  not  guess. 

"  Church  property,  my  boy.  Built  on  the  site  of  a  cell  of 
Westminster,  granted  by  Henry  to  Essex  in  1535.  Tom  Crom- 
well got  it  first  and  lost  it ;  and  then  Walter  Devereux  bought 
it  back  for  name's  sake,  because  it  had  belonged  to  an  Essex 
once  before,  T  suppose  ;  and  then  Robert  built  the  house  in  one 
of  his  fantastic  moods.  Pretty  luck  they  had  Avith  it,  —  Dev- 
ereux the  younger  will  tell  you  about  that.  Then  we  got  it,  and 
a  nice  mess  we  made  of  it,  —  there  was  never  a  generation  with- 
out a  tragedy.  It  is  a  cursed  place  to  the  Ilillyars.  My  fatlier 
would  be  out  of  his  mind  if  he  knew  I  were  here.  The  last 
tragedy  was  the  most  fearful." 

Frank  immediately  got  up  on  Emma's  lap.  Erne  did  not 
want  to  be  asked  to  tell  us  all  about  it. 


THE  niLLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  05 

**  In  1686,"  he  said,  "it  Avas  the  dower  house  of  Jane,  Dow- 
ager Lady  Hillyar.  Iler  son,  Sir  Cheyne  Ilillyar,  was  a 
bigoted  jKipist,  and,  thinking  over  the  misfortunes  which  had 
happeninl  to  the  family  hituly,  attributed  tliem  to  the  possession 
of  this  Church  property,  and  determined  that  it  shoukl  be  re- 
stored forthwith  to  the  Church,  even  though  it  were  to  that  pesti- 
lent heretic  Adam  Littleton,  D.  D.,  the  tlien  rector  of  Chelsea ; 
ho})ing,  however,  says  my  father,  to  see  the  same  reverend  Doc- 
tor shortly  replaced,  by  an  orthodox  gentleman  from  the  new 
Jesuit  school  in  Savoy.  But  there  was  a  hitch  in  the  proceed- 
ings, my  dear  Jim.  There  was  a  party  in  the  bargain  who  had 
not  been  sufficiently  considered  or  consulted.  Jane,  Lady  Hill- 
yar, was,  though  a  strong  Catholic,  a  very  obstinate  old  lady  in- 
deed. vShe  refused,  in  spite  of  all  the  spiritual  artillery  that  her 
son  could  bring  to  bear  upon  her,  to  have  the  transfer  made  dur- 
ing her  lifetime ;  and,  while  the  dispute  was  hot  between  them, 
her  son,  Sir  Cheyne  died. 

"  Then  the  old  lady's  conscience  began  to  torment  her.  She 
believed  that  the  house  ought  to  be  restored  to  the  Church ;  but 
her  avarice  was  opposed  to  this  step,  and  between  her  avarice 
and  superstition  she  went  mad. 

"  All  her  children  had  deserted  her,  save  one,  a  hunchbacked 
grand-daughter,  who  came  here  and  lived  with  her  for  three 
months,  and  who  died  here.  After  this  poor  girl's  death,  the 
old  woman  kept  no  servants  in  the  house  at  night,  but  used  to 
sleep  in  a  room  at  the  top  of  the  house,  with  her  money  under 
her  bed.     Is  there  such  a  room?" 

"  Yes,"  I  said,  "  and  her  ghost  walks  there  now." 

"  It  should,"  said  Erne,  "  by  all  reasons,  for  she  was  murdered 
there.  They  found  her  dead  in  the  morning,  on  the  threshold 
between  two  rooms.  She  had  not  been  to  bed,  for  she  was 
dressed,  —  dressed  in  her  old  gray  silk  gown,  and  even  had  her 
black  mittens  on." 

Nothing  could  shake  my  faith  in  the  ghost  after  this.  The 
fact  of  Erne  and  ourselves  having  both  heard  the  same  silly 
story,  from  apparently  different,  but  really  from  the  same 
sources,  confirmed  it  beyond  suspicion  in  my  mind.  The  dread 
I  had  always  had  of  that  room  at  the  top  of  the  house,  in  which 
Reuben  lived,  now  deepened  into  horror,  —  into  a  horror  which 
was  only  intensified  by  what  happened  there  afterwards.  Even 
now,  though  the  room  has  ceased  to  exist,  the  horror  most  cer- 
tainly has  not. 

"  But  come,"  said  Erne,  "  let  me  see  this  house,  which  has 
been  so  fatal  to  my  family.  The  weird  cannot  extend  to  me,  for 
we  own  it  no  longer.  AVhat  do  you  say,  Emma ;  has  the  luck 
turned  ? " 


66  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BUETONS. 

"  I  fear  I  must  keep  you  ten  years,  or  perhaps  fifty,  waiting 
for  an  answer,"  she  said.  "  But,  even  then,  I  could  only  tell  you 
what  I  can  now,  that  your  fate  is  to  a  very  great  extent  in  your 
own  hands." 

"  You  don't  believe  in  destiny,  or  anything  of  that  sort,  then  ?  " 
said  Erne. 

"■  Not  the  least  in  the  world,"  she  said. 

"  Then  you  are  no  true  Mussulwoman,"  said  Erne.  "  Let 
us  come  up  stairs,  and  see  the  haunted  mansion.  Come  on, 
Emma." 

So  we  went  into  the  empty  room  up  stairs,  and  Emma  showed 
him  the  view  westward.  While  they  stood  together  at  the  win- 
dow, the  sun  smote  upon  their  faces  with  his  last  ray  of  gloiy, 
and  then  went  down  behind  the  trees ;  so  that,  when  Erne,  Joe, 
and  I  started  together  up  stairs  to  see  Reuben's  room,  it  grew 
darker  and  darker  each  step  we  went. 

"  A  weird,  dull  place,"  said  Erne,  looking  around.  "  There  is 
another  room  inside  this,  and  the  old  lady  was  murdered  on  the 
threshold.     Does  your  cousin  live  here  all  alone  ?  " 

"  All  alone." 

"  He  must  be  rather  dull." 

"  The  merriest  fellow  alive." 

"When  we  came  down  stairs,  we  found  my  father  and  mother 
awaiting  us.  My  mother  seemed  very  much  delighted  at  my 
having  picked  up  such  a  fine  acquaintance ;  and  my  father 
said,  — 

"  Sir,  you  are  welcome.  I  am  glad  to  see,  sir,  that  my  boy 
Jim  is  appreciated  by  gentlemen  as  well  able  to  judge  as  your- 
self." And  then  my  father  proceeded  to  define  the  principal 
excellences  of  my  character.  I  am  sure  I  hope  he  was  right. 
My  crowning  virtue,  it  appeared,  —  the  one  that  contained  the 
others,  and  surpassed  them,  —  was,  that  I  was  "  all  there."  My 
father  assured  Erne  that  he  would  find  that,  to  be  the  case. 
That  no  one  had  ever  ventured  to  say  that  it  was  not  the  case. 
That  if  any  one  did  say  so,  and  was  in  anyways  prepared  to 
maintain  his  opinion,  he  would  be  glad  to  hear  his  reasons,  and 
so  on  ;  turning  the  original  proposition,  about  my  being  "  all 
there,"  over  and  over,  and  inside  out,  a  dozen  times.  Erne  had 
no  idea  what  he  meant,  but  he  knew  it  was  something  highly 
complimentary  to  me,  and  so  he  said  he  perfectly  agreed  with 
my  father,  and,  that  he  had  taken  notice  of  that  particular  point 
in  my  character  the  very  moment  he  saw  me,  which  was  carry- 
ing a  polite  fiction  somewhat  dangerously  far.  At  last  he  said 
he  must  go,  and,  turning  to  my  father,  asked  if  he  might  come 
again.  My  father  begged  he  would  honor  him  whenever  he 
pleased,  and  then  he  went  away,  and  I  walked  with  him. 


THE  IIILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  C7 

"  I  've  run  away,  Jim,"  he  said,  as  soon  as  we  were  in  the 
street.     •'  I  ran  away  to  see  yoii." 

I  ventured  to  express  a  wish  that,  at  some  future  time,  ho 
miglit  be  induced  to  jio  back  again. 

"  Yes,"  lie  said,  "  I  shall  go  back  to-morrow.  I  sleep  at  a 
friend's  house  here  in  Chelsea,  and  I  shall  go  back  to-morrow, 
but  I  shall  come  again.     Often,  I  hope." 

When  I  got  home  my  father  was  sitting  up  alone  smoking.  I 
sat  down  opposite  to  him,  and  in  a  few  minutes  he  said,  — 

"  A  fine  young  chap  that,  old  man !  " 

"  Very,  indeed,"  I  said,  slightly  anxious  about  the  results  of 
the  interview. 

"  Yes  !  A  fine,  handsome,  manly  lad,"  continued  he.  "  What 's 
bis  name,  by-the-by  ?  " 

I  saw  the  truth  must  come  out. 

"  His  name  is  Hillj'ar,"  I  said. 

"  Christian  name  ?  " 

"  Erne." 

"  Then  you  went  to  Stanlake  yesterday  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  I  said.  "  We  wanted  to  see  it  after  what  you  said, 
and  so  we  went." 

My  father  looked  very  serious,  and  sat  smoking  a  long  time ; 
at  last  he  said,  — 

"  Jim,  you  mind  the  night  you  was  bound  "i  " 

"Yes." 

"  And  what  I  told  you  about  Samuel  Burton  and  his  yoimg 
master,  that  carried  on  so  hard  ?  " 

I  remembered  every  word. 

"  This  young  Erne  Ilillyar  is  his  brother.  That 's  why  your 
mother  cried  when  Stanlake  was  spoke  of ;  and  all  this  has  come 
out  of  those  dratted  water-lilies." 

And  so  we  went  to  bed ;  but  I  could  not  sleep  at  first.  I  lay 
awake,  thinking  of  my  disobedience,  and  wondering  what  com- 
plication of  results  would  follow  from  it.  But  at  last  I  fell 
asleep,  saying  to  myself,  ''  Will  he  come  again  to-morrow  ?  when 
will  he  come  a^-aiu  ? " 


68  THE  HILLYAES  AND  TUE  BURTONS. 


CHAPTER    XIV. 

THE  GLEAM  OF  THE  AUTUI^IN  SUNSET. 

"  On  the  27th,  at  the  Cathedral,  by  the  Right  Reverend  the 
Bishop  of  Palinerston,  assisted  by  the  Very  Reverend  Dean 
Maberly,  of  N.  S.  W.,  and  the  Rev.  Minimus  Smallchange 
of  St.  Micros,  Little  Creek,  George  liillyar,  Esq.,  Inspector  of 
Police  for  the  Bumbleoora  District,  eldest  son  of  Sir  George 
Hillyar,  of  Stanlake,  England,  to  Gertrude,  sixth  and  last  re- 
maining daughter  of  the  late  James  Neville,  Esq.  of  Neville's 
Gap." 

That  was  the  way  the  Sentinel  announced  it,  —  "  last  remain- 
ing daughter."  In  England,  one  would  have  thought  that  all  the 
other  daughters  were  dead!  Australians  understood  the  sen- 
tence  better.  It  merely  meant  that  all  the  other  sisters  were 
married;  that  the  Miss  Nevilles  were  exhausted;  that  there 
were  n't  any  more  of  them  left ;  that,  if  you  wanted  to  marry 
one  of  these  ever  so  much  now,  you  could  n't  do  it ;  and  that 
the  market  was  free  to  the  most  eligible  young  ladies  next  in 
succession.     That  was  all  the  Sentinel  meant.     Dead !  Quotha ! 

Some  of  the  young  ladies  said:  Their  word,  —  they  were  sur- 
prised. That,  if  you  had  gone  down  on  your  knees  now,  and 
told  them  that  Gerty  was  ambitious  and  heartless,  they  would 
not  have  believed  it.  That,  if  you  had  told  them  that  she  was  a 
poor  little  thing  with  no  manners ;  that  she  never  could  dress 
herself  in  colors,  and  so  stuck  to  white ;  that  she  was  the  color 
of  a  cockatoo  when  she  sat  still,  and  got  to  be  the  color  of  a 
king-parrot  the  moment  she  began  to  dance ;  that  she  was  a  for- 
ward little  thing,  and  a  shy  little  thing,  and  a  bold  little  thing, 
and  an  artful  little  thing,  and  that  her  spraining  her  ankle  at  the 
ball  at  Government-House  was  all  an  excuse  to  get  on  the  sofa 
beside  Lord  Edward  Staunton,  —  they  would  have  believed  all 
this.  But  they  never,  never  could  have  believed  that  she  would 
have  sold  herself  to  that  disreputable,  smooth-faced  creature  of  a 
Hillyar,  for  the  sake  of  his  prospective  title. 

But  other  young  ladies  said  that  Gerty  was  the  sweetest, 
kindest,  best  little  soul  that  ever  was  born.  That,  if  Inspector 
Hillyar  did  anything  to  make  her  unhappy,  he  ought  to  be  torn 
to  pieces  by  wild  horses.  But  that  there  must  be  something 
good  in  him,  or  Gerty  could  never  have  loved  him  as  she  did. 

The  Secretary,  who  was  cross  and  uneasy  over  the  whole  mat- 


THE  UILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  GO 

ter,  on  being  told  by  his  wife  about  this  yonng-lady  tattle,  said 
that  the  detractors  were  all  of  them  the  daughters  of  the  trades- 
men and  small  farmers,  —  the  female  part  of  the  Opposition. 
IJiit  this  was  not  true,  for  Gerty  had  many  friends  even  among 
the  Opposition.  Miss  Hurtle,  daughter  of  the  radical  member  for 
North  Palmerston,  (also  an  ironmonger  in  Banks  Street,)  behaved 
much  like  Miss  Swai-tz  in  Vanity  Fair.  She  was  so  overcome 
at  the  wedding  that  she  incautiously  began  to  sob ;  her  sobs  soon 
developed  themselves  into  a  long  discordant  bellow,  complicated 
with  a  spa«;modic  tattoo  of  her  toes  against  the  front  of  the  pew. 
The  exhibition  of  smelling-salts  only  rendering  her  black  in  the 
face ;  they  had  to  resort  to  stimulants.  And,  as  the  procession 
went  out,  they  were  met  by  the  sexton,  with  brandy-and-water. 
The  Secretary  laughed  aloud,  and  his  wife  was  glad  to  hear  him 
laugh,  for  he  had  been,  as  she  expressed,  "  as  black  as  thunder  " 
all  the  morning. 

Yes,  for  good  or  for  evil,  it  was  all  over  and  done  ;  and  one 
might  as  well  laugh  as  cry.  Gerty  Neville  was  Mrs.  Hillyar, 
and  the  best  must  be  made  of  it. 

The  best  did  not  seem  so  very  bad.  The  Hillyars  came  and 
stayed  with  the  Oxtons  at  the  Secretary's  house  near  town,  after 
spending  their  honeymoon  in  Sydney,  and  every  day  they  stayed 
there  the  Secretary's  brow  grew  smoother,  and  he  appeared  more 
reconciled  to  what  had  happened. 

Gerty  seemed  as  bright  as  the  morning-star.  A  most  devoted 
and  proud  little  wife,  proud  of  herself,  j)roud  of  her  foresight  and 
discretion  in  making  such  a  choice,  and,  above  all,  proud  of  her 
cool,  calm,  gentlemanly  husband.  Her  kind  little  heart  was 
overflowing  with  happiness,  which  took  the  form  of  loving-kind- 
ness for  all  her  fellow-creatures,  from  the  Governor  down  to  the 
meanest  native  who  lay  by  the  creekside. 

''She  afraid  of  her  terrible  father-in-law,"  she  would  say, 
laughing ;  "  let  him  meet  her  face  to  face,  and  she  would  bring 
him  on  his  knees  in  no  time."  She  was  so  very  lovely,  that  Mr. 
and  Mrs.  Oxton  really  thought  that  she  might  assist  to  bring 
about  a  reconciliation  between  father  and  son,  though  George, 
who  knew  more  than  they,  professed  to  have  but  little  hopes  of 
any  change  taking  place  in  his  father's  feelings  towards  him. 

A  great  and  steady  change  for  the  better  was  taking  place  in 
George  himself.  There  could  be  no  doubt  that  he  was  most 
deeply  and  sincerely  in  love  with  his  wife ;  and  also  that,  with 
her,  this  new  life  did  not,  as  the  Secretary  had  feared,  bore  and 
weary  him.  It  was  wonderfully  pleasant  and  peaceful.  He  had 
never  had  repose  before  in  his  life  ;  and  now  he  began  to  feel  the 
full  beauty  of  it. 

The  Secretary  saw  all  this ;  but  his  dread  was  that  this  new 


70  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

State  of  being,  had  come  to  him  too  late  in  hfe  to  become  habitual. 
There  was  the  clanger. 

Still  the  improvement  was  marked.  He  lost  the  old  impatient 
insolent  fall  in  the  eyes  when  addressed ;  he  lost  his  old  contra- 
dictory manner  altogether ;  his  voice  grew  more  gentle,  and  his 
whole  air  more  cheerful ;  and,  lastly,  for  the  first  time  in  his  life, 
he  began  to  pay  little  attentions  to  women.  He  began  to  squire 
INIrs.  Oxton  about,  and  to  buy  flowers  for  her,  and  all  that  sort 
of  tiling,  and  to  show  her,  in  a  mute  sort  of  way,  that  he  ap- 
proved of  her ;  and  he  made  himself  so  agreeable  to  all  his 
wife's  friends  that  they  began  to  think  that  she  had  not  done  so 
very  badly  after  all. 

He  very  seldom  laughed  heartily.  Indeed,  what  little  humor 
he  had  was  dry  and  caustic,  and  he  never  unbent  himself  to,  or 
was  easy  and  confidential  with,  any  human  being,  —  unless  it 
were  his  wife,  when  they  were  alone.  His  treatment  of  the 
Secretary  was  respectful,  nay,  even  for  him,  affectionate  ;  but  he 
was  never  free  with  him.  He  would  talk  over  his  affairs  with 
him,  would  discuss  the  chances  of  a  reconciliation  with  his  father, 
and  so  on  ;  yet  there  was  no  warmth  of  confidence  between  them. 
Neither  ever  called  the  other  "old  fellow,"  or  made  the  most 
trifling  joke  at  the  other's  expense.  If  you  had  told  the  Secre- 
tary that  he  still  distrusted  George  Hillyar,  he  would  have  de- 
nied it.  But,  generous  and  freehearted  as  the  Secretary  was, 
there  was  a  grain  of  distrust  of  his  brother-in-law  in  his  heart 
still. 

Thus,  even  at  his  best,  but  one  human  being  loved  the  poor 
fellow,  and  that  one  being  was  his  wife,  who,  for  some  reason, 
adored  him.  It  is  quite  easy  to  see  that  in  the  times  before  his 
marriage  he  may  have  been  a  most  unpopular  person.  Here  he 
is  before  us  now,  for  the  six  months  succeedino-  his  marriage,  a 
tall,  handsome  man,  of  about  thirty-one,  with  a  rather  pale,  hair- 
less face,  somewhat  silent,  somewhat  reserved,  but  extremely 
self-possessed ;  very  polite  and  attentive  in  small  things,  but  yet 
unable  to  prevent  your  seeing  that  his  politeness  cost  him  an 
effort,  —  a  man  striving  to  forget  the  learning  of  a  lifetime. 

Shortly  after  his  marriage,  he  wrote  to  his  father :  — 

"  My  Dear  Sir,  —  We  have  been  so  long  and  so  hopelessly 
estranged  that  I  have  considerable  difficulty  in  knowing  in  what 
terms  I  ought  to  address  you. 

"  Since  I  left  Wiesbaden,  and  requested  you  in  future  to  pay 
the  annual  sum  of  money,  you  are  kind  enough  to  allow  me,  into 
the  bank  at  Sydney,  none  but  the  most  formal  communications 
have  passed  between  us.  The  present  one  shall  be  as  formal  as 
possible,  but  I  fear  will  trench  somewhat  on  family  matters. 


'the  hillyars  and  the  burtons.  71 

"I  have  been  four  years  in  the  police  service  of  this  colony, 
and  have  at  last,  by  a  piece  of  service  of  which  I  decline  to  speak, 
raised  niv>clf  to  the  hiirlic-t  rank  obtainable  in  it. 

"In  addition  to  tliis  jiiccc  of  intelligence,  I  have  to  inform  you 
that  I  have  made  a  most  excellent  marriage.  Any  inquiries  you 
may  make  about  the  future  Lady  Ilillyar  can  only  be  answered 
in  one  way. 

"  Hoping  that  your  heidth  is  good,  I  beg  to  remain, 

"  Your  obedient  son, 

"  Geokge  IIilltar." 

The  answer  came  in  time,  as  follows :  — 

"My  Dear  George,  —  I  had  heard  of  your  brilliant  gal- 
lantry, and  also  of  your  marriage,  from  another  source,  before 
your  letter  arrived.  I  highly  approve  of  your  conduct  in  both 
cases. 

"In  the  place  of  the  £300  wdiich  you  have  been  receiving 
hitherto  from  me,  you  will  in  future  receive  £1000  annually.  I 
hope  the  end  has  come  at  last  to  the  career  of  vice  and  selfish 
dissipation  in  which  you  have  persisted  so  long. 

"  I  confess  that  I  am  very  much  pleased  at  what  I  hear  of  you 
this  last  six  months  (I  am  well-informed  about  every  movement 
you  make)  :  I  had  utterly  given  you  up.  The  way  to  good  fame 
seems  to  be  plainly  before  you.  I  wish  I  could  believe  that  none 
of  this  enormous  crop  of  wild  oats,  wliich  you  have  so  diligently 
sown  for  the  last  eighteen  years,  would  come  up  and  bear  terrible 
fruit.     I  wish  I  could  believe  that. 

"  Meanwhile,  if  your  duties  call  you  to  England,  I  will  receive 
you  and  your  wife.  But  take  this  j^iece  of  advice  seriously  to 
heart.     Make  friends  and  a  career  where  you  are.     Mind  that. 

"  Your  affectionate  father, 

"  George  Hillyar." 

A  cold,  cruel,  heartless  letter.  Not  one  word  of  tender  forgive- 
ness ;  not  one  word  of  self-blame  for  the  miserable  mistakes  that 
he  had  made  with  his  son  in  times  gone  by :  the  hatred  which  he 
felt  for  him  showing  out  in  the  prophecies  of  unknown  horrors  in 
what  seemed  a  brighter  future.  The  devil,  which  had  not  lookcil 
out  of  George  Hillyar's  eyes  for  six  months  past,  looked  out  now, 
and  he  swore  aloud. 

" '  Make  friends  and  a  career  where  you  are.'  So  he  is  going 
to  disinherit  me  in  favor  of  that  cui'sed  young  toad  Erne." 


72  TUE  HILLYAES  AND   THE  BURTONS. 

CHAPTER    XV. 

IN  WHICH  THE   SNAKE   CREEPS   OUT   OF   THE   GRASS. 

The  place  in  wliicli  he  had  received  this  letter  was  the  post- 
office  at  Palmerston,  one  of  the  principal  public  buildings  of  that 
thriving  capital,  —  a  majestic  and  imposing  pile  of  galvanized 
iron,  roofed  with  tin,  twenty  feet  long,  surmounted  by  a  pediment, 
the  apex  of  which  rose  fifteen  feet  from  the  level  of  Banks  Street, 
and  carried  a  weathercock. 

The  mail  was  just  in,  and  the  place  was  crowded.  Roaring 
for  his  orderly  was  of  very  little  use ;  it  only  raised  a  few  eager 
eyes  impatiently  from  their  letters,  or  made  a  few  disappointed 
idlers  wonder  what  the  Inspector  was  hollering  after.  His  order- 
ly had  probably  got  a  letter,  and  was  reading  it  in  some  secret 
corner.     He  would  wait  for  him. 

The  devil  had  been  in  him  a  few  minutes  ago;  but  as  he  stood 
and  waited  there,  in  the  sweltering  little  den  called  the  post- 
office,  with  all  the  eager  readers  of  letters  around  him,  the  devil 
began  to  be  beat  out  again.  There  was  an  atmosphere  in  that 
miserable  little  hot  tin-kettle  of  a  post-office  which  the  devil  can't 
stand  at  all,  —  the  atmosphere  of  home.  Old  loves,  old  hopes, 
old  friends,  old  scenes,  old  scents,  old  sounds,  are  threads  which, 
though  you  draw  them  finer  than  the  finest  silk,  are  still  stronger 
than  iron.  Did  you  ever  hear  the  streams  talk  to  you  in  May, 
when  you  went  a-fishing?  Did  you  ever  hear  what  the  first 
rustle  of  the  summer-leaves  said  to  you  in  June,  when  you  went 
a-courting?  Did  you  ever  hear,  as  a  living  voice,  the  southwest 
wind  among  the  bare  ash-boughs  in  November,  when  you  were 
out  a-shooting  ?  If  you  have  imagination  enough  to  put  a  voice 
into  these  senseless  sounds  of  nature,  I  should  like  to  stand  with 
you  in  the  Melbourne  post-office  on  a  mail  day,  and  see  what  sort 
of  voice  would  speak  to  you  out  of  the  rustling  of  a  thousand 
fluttering  letters,  held  by  trembling  fingers,  and  gazed  on  by  faces 
which,  however  coarse  and  ugly,  let  the  news  be  good  or  bad, 
grow  more  soft  and  gentle  as  the  news  is  read. 

Poor  George  Hillyar.  His  letter  had  no  hope  or  comfort  in 
it ;  and  yet,  by  watching  the  readers  of  the  other  letters,  and  see- 
ing face  after  face  light  up,  he  got  more  quiet,  less  inclined  to  be 
violent  and  rash,  less  inclined  to  roar  for  his  orderly,  and  make  a 
fool  of  himself  before  Gerty.  He  leant  against  an  iron  pillar,  and 
fixed  his  attention  on  a  good-natured-looking  young  man  belbre 
him,  who  was  devouring  an  ill-written,  blotted  letter  with  an 


THE  HILLYARS  AND   THE  BURTONS.  78 

eajrerness  and  a  deliglit  which  made  liis  whole  face  wreathe  it- 
self into  one  very  large  smile. 

ITe  was  pleaseil  to  look  at  him,  and  looked  at  him  more  ear- 
nestly, liut.  while  he  looked  at  him,  he  foiiiid  that  he  could  not 
concentrate  his  attention  on  him.  He  tried  to  do  so,  for  this 
young  fellow,  by  reason  of  a  delicient  education,  was  enjoying 
his  letter  amazingly;  he  was  reaping  all  the  pleasures  of  anticij)a- 
tion  and  fruition  at  one  and  the  same  time.  When  lie  began  a 
sentence,  following  the  words  with  a  grimy  forefinger,  he  grinned, 
because  he  felt  certain  that  something  good  was  coming;  when 
he  had  spelt  through  it  he  grinned  wider  still,  because  it  sur- 
passed his  expectations.  Once,  after  finishing  one  of  these  hard- 
spelt  sentences,  he  looked  round  radiantly  on  the  crowd,  and  said, 
confidentially  :  "  I  told  you  so.     I  know'd  she  'd  have  him  ! " 

At  this  gushing  piece  of  confidence  to  an  unsympatliizing 
crowd,  poor  George  Hillyar  felt  as  if  he  would  have  liked  to 
meet  this  young  man's  eyes  and  smile  at  him.  But  he  could  not. 
Somehow,  another  pair  of  eyes  came  between  him  and  everything 
else,  —  eyes  which  he  could  not  identify  among  the  crowd,  yet 
which  he  could  feel,  and  which  produced  a  sensation  of  sleepy 
petulance  with  which  he  was  very  familiar.  He  had  read  some 
account  of  the  fascination  of  snakes,  and  because  it  seemed  a 
bizarre,  and  rather  wicked  sort  of  amusement,  he  had  tried  it  for 
himself.  He  used  to  go  out  from  the  barracks  on  Sunday  after- 
noon, find  a  black  snake  among  the  stony  ridges,  engage  its  atten- 
tion, and  stare  at  it.  The  snake  would  lie  motionless,  with  its 
beady  eyes  fixed  on  him.  The  fearful  stillness  of  the  horrible 
brute,  which  carried  instant  death  in  its  mouth,  would  engage 
him  deeply  ;  and  the  wearying  attention  of  his  eye,  expecting 
some  sudden  motion  of  the  reptile,  would  begin  to  tell  upon  the 
brain,  and  make  the  watcher,  as  I  have  said  iDefore,  petulant  and 
dull.  At  leiisth  the  snake,  i^atherino;  confidence  from  his  still- 
ness,  would  gleam  and  rustle  in  every  coil,  stretch  out  its  quiver- 
ing neck,  and  attemf)t  flight.  Then  his  suppressed  anger  would 
break  forth,  and  he  would  arise  and  smite  it,  almost  careless,  for 
the  moment,  whether  he  died  himself  or  no.* 

He  passed  out  of  the  cfowd,  and  came  into  the  portico ;  the 
people  were  standing  about,  still  reading  their  letters,  and  his 
own  orderly  w^as  sitting  with  his  feet  loose  in  his  stirrups,  nearly 
doublt^d  up  in  his  saddle,  reading  his  letter  too,  while  he  held  the 
rein  of  George  Hillyar's  horse  loosely  over  his  arm.     The  flies 

*  This  is  my  theory  about  snake-foscination.  The  above  are  tlie  only  results 
I  ever  arrived  at  (except  a  creeping  in  the  calves  of  my  k'<:«,  and  an  intense 
desire  to  run  away).  Dr.  Holmes  don't  quite  agree.  But  I  will  publicly  retract 
all  I  have  saifl,  if  he  will  promise  not  to  try  any  further  experiments  with  his 
dreadful  crotuli.  The  author  of  "Elsie  VenneV  "  is  far  too  precious  a  person 
for  tliat  sort  of  thing. 

4 


74  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

were  troublesome,  and  sometimes  the  led  horse  would  give  such 
a  jerk  with  his  head  as  would  nearly  pull  the  letter  out  of  the 
orderly's  hand ;  but  he  did  not  notice  it.  He  sat  doubled  up  on 
his  saddle,  with  a  radiant  eager  smile  on  his  face,  and  read. 

Time  was  when  poor  Ilillyar  would  have  sworn  at  him,  woidd 
have  said  that  the  force  was  going  to  the  devil,  because  a  cadet 
dared  to  read  a  letter  on  duty.  But  those  times  were  gone  by 
for  the  present.  George  Hillyar  had  been  a  bully,  but  was  a 
bully  no  longer.  He  waited  till  his  orderly  should  have  finished 
his  letter,  and  waited  the  more  readily  because  he  felt  that  those 
two  strange  eyes,  of  which  he  had  been  clearly  conscious,  were 
plaguing  him  no  more. 

So  he  waited  until  his  orderly  had  done  his  letter  before  he 
approached  him.  The  orderly,  a  gentle-looking  English  lad,  with 
a  kind,  quiet  face,  looked  on  his  advance  with  dismay.  He  had 
committed  a  slight  breach  of  discipline  in  reading  his  sister's  let- 
ter while  on  duty  in  the  public  streets ;  and  Bully  Hillyar,  the 
man  who  never  spared  or  forgave,  had  caught  him.  It  was  a 
week's  arrest. 

Neverthele.-s,  he  looked  bright,  pushed  the  letter  into  his  breast, 
and  wheeled  the  led  horse  round  ready  for  the  Inspector  to  mount. 
He  knew,  this  sagacious  creature,  that  he  was  going  to  catch  it, 
and,  so  to  speak,  put  up  a  moral  umbrella  against  the  storm  of 
profane  oaths  which  he  h^eio  would  follow. 

Will  you  conceive  his  astonishment  when  the  Inspector,  instead 
of  blaspheming  at  him,  took  his  curb  down  a  link,  and  said  over 
the  saddle,  preparing  to  mount,  "  What  sort  of  news,  Dicken- 
son ?    Good  news,  hey  ?  " 

Judging  by  former  specimens  of  George  Hillyar's  tender  mer- 
cies, the  orderly  conceived  this  to  be  a  kind  of  diabolical  chaff 
or  irony,  preparatory  to  utter  verbal  demolition  and  ruin.  He 
feebly  said  that  he  was  very  sorry. 

"  Pish,  man !  I  am  not  chaffing.  Have  you  got  good  news  in 
your  letter,  hey  ?  " 

The  astonished  and  still-distrusting  orderly  said,  "  Very  good 
news,  sir,  thank  you." 

"Hah!"  said  George  Hillyar.  "I  have  n't.  What's  your 
news  ?    Come,  tell  us." 

"  My  mother  is  coming  out,  sir." 

"  I  suppose  you  are  very  fond  of  your  mother,  ar'n't  you  ?  And 
she  is  fond  of  you,  hey  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  She  don't  play  Tom-fool's  tricks,  does  she  ?  She  would  n't 
cut  away  with  a  man,  and  leave  you,  would  she  ?  " 

"  No,  sir." 

"  If  she  were  to,  should  you  like  her  all  the  same,  eh  ?  " 


THE   niLLYAKS   AND   THE  BURTONS.  75 

"I  cannot  tell,  sir.  You  will  be  pleased  to  close  tlie  conversa- 
tion here,  sir.  My  mother  is  a  lady,  and  I  don't  allow  any  dis- 
cussion whatever  about  her  possibh^  proceedings." 

''I  did  n't  mean  to  nvdko  you  angry,"  said  Bully  Ilillyar,  the 
inspector,  to  quiet  Dickenson,  the  cadet ;  "  I  am  very  sorry.  I 
am  afraid  my  manner  must  be  unfortunate  ;  for  just  now,  on  my 
honor,  I  was  trying  to  make  a  friend  of  you,  and  1  have  only 
succeeded  in  making  you  angry." 

Young  Dickenson,  not  a  wise  being  by  any  means,  remembered 
this  conversation  all  his  life.  lie  used  to  say  afterwards  that 
Bully  Hillyar  had  had  good  points  in  him,  and  that  he  knew  it. 
When  George  Hillyar  was  condemned,  he  used  to  say,  "Well, 
well !  this  was  bad,  and  that  was  bad,  but  he  was  a  good  fellow 
at  bottom."  The  fact  is,  that  George  unbent,  and  was  his  better 
self  before  this  young  man.  He  had  been  slowly  raising  himself 
to  a  higher  level,  and  was  getting  hopeful.  When  he  felt  those 
eyes  fixed  upon  him,  as  he  read  his  letter,  —  which  eyes  gave 
him  a  deadly  chill,  though  he  had  not  recognized  them,  —  the 
vague  anxiety  which  possessed  him  had  caused  him  to  be  con- 
fidential with  the  first  man  he  met. 

So  he  rode  slowly  home  to  the  barracks  and  sat  down  in  his 
quarters  to  business,  for  he  had  taken  the  business  off  the  hands 
of  the  Palmerston  Inspector,  and  had  so  given  him  a  holiday. 
The  office  was  a  very  pleasant  place,  opening  on  the  paddock,  — 
at  this  time  of  year  a  sheet  of  golden  green  turf,  shaded  by  low 
gum-trees,  which  let  sunbeams  through  their  boughs  in  all  direc- 
tions, to  make  a  yellow  pattern  on  the  green  ground.  The  pad- 
dock sloped  down  to  the  river,  which  gleamed  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
off  among  the  tree-stems. 

It  was  a  perfectly  peaceful  day  in  the  very  early  spring.  The 
hum  of  the  distant  town  was  scarcely  perceptible,  and  there  was 
hardly  a  sound  in  the  barracks.  Sometimes  a  few  parrots  would 
come  whistliniy  throuirh  the  trees  ;  sometimes  a  horse  would  nci^jh 
in  the  paddock ;  sometimes  a  lazily-moved  oar  would  sound  from 
the  river;  but  quiet  content  and  peace  were  over  everything. 

Even  the  two  prisoners  in  the  yard  had  ceased  to  talk,  and 
sat  silent  in  the  sun.  A  trooper  going  into  the  stable,  and  two 
or  three  horses  neiirhinjr,  to  him  was  an  event.  Georije  Hillvar 
sat  and  thought  in  the  stillness,  and  his  thoughts  were  pleasant, 
and  held  him  long. 

At  length  he  was  aroused  by  voices  in  the  yard,  —  one  that  of 
a  trooper. 

"  I  tell  you  he  's  busy. 

"  But  I  really  must  see  him,"  said  the  other  voice.  "  I  bnng 
important  information." 

George  listened  intently. 


76  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"I  tell  you,"  said  the  trooper,  "he  is  busy  Why  can't  you 
wait  till  he  comes  out?" 

"  If  you  don't  do  my  message,  mate,  you  '11  repent  it." 
"  You  're  a  queer  card  to  venture  within  a  mile  of  a  police- 
station  at  all ;  leave  alone  being  cheeky  when  you  are  in  the  lion's 
jaws." 

"Never  you  mind  about  that,"  said  the  other.  "You  mmd 
your  business  half  as  well  as  I  mind  mine,  and  you  '11  be  a  man 
before  your  mother  now.  What  a  pretty  old  lady  she  must  be, 
if  she  's  like  you.  More  mustache  though,  ain't  she  ?  How  's 
pussy  ?    I  was  sorry  for  the  old  gal  getting  nabbed,  but  —  " 

As  it  was  perfectly  evident  that  there  would,  in  one  instant 
more,  be  a  furious  combat  of  two,  and  that  George  would  have 
to  give  one  of  his  best  troopers  a  week's  arrest,  he  roared  out  to 
know  what  the  noise  was  about. 

"  A  Sydney  sider,  sir,  very  saucy,  insists  upon  seeing  you." 
"  Show  him  in  then.     Perhaps  he  brings  information." 
The  man  laid  George's  revolver  on  the  table,  put  the  news- 
paper carelessly  over  it,  saluted,  and  withdrew.     Directly  after- 
ward the  evil  face  of  Samuel  Burton  was  smiling  in  the  door- 
way, and  George  Hillyar's  heart  grew  cold  within  him. 


CHAPTER    XVI. 

JAMES  BURTON'S  STORY:    ERNE  AND  EMMA. 

My  dear  father's  religious  convictions  were,  and  are,  eminently 
orthodox.  He  had  been  born  and  bred  under  the  shadow  of  a 
great  Kentish  family,  and  had  in  his  earlier  years,  —  until  the 
age  of  manhood,  indeed,  —  contemplated  the  act  of  going  to 
cliurch  anywhere  but  at  the  family  church  in  the  park  as  some- 
thing little  less  than  treason.  So  when,  moved  by  ambition,  he 
broke  through  old  routine  so  far  as  to  come  to  London  and  estab- 
lish himself,  he  grew  fiercer  than  ever  in  his  orthodoxy ;  and, 
having  made  such  a  desperate  step  as  that,  he  felt  that  he  must 
draw  a  line  somewhere.  He  must  have  some  holdfast  to  his  old 
life  ;  so  his  devotion  to  the  Establishment  was  intense  and  jealous. 
The  habit  he  had  of  attending  church  in  all  weathers  on  Sunday 
morning,  and  carefully  spelling  through  the  service,  got  to  be  so 
much  a  part  of  himself  that,  when  our  necessities  compelled  us 
to  render  ourselves  to  a  place  where  you  could  n't  go  to  church 
if  you  wished  it,  the  craving  after  the  old  habit  made  ray  father 


THE   IIILLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS.  77 

most  uneasy  and  anxious,  as  far  on  in  the  w«n'k  as  Tuesday 
afternoon  ;  about  wliicli  time  tlie  regret  for  the  churchless  Sun- 
day just  gone  by  would  liave  worn  itself  out.  But  then  the  cloud 
of  the  equally  ehurchlcss  Sunday  approaching  would  begin  to 
lower  down  about  Thursday  afternoon,  and  grow  darker  as  the 
day  approached ;  so  that  for  the  first  six  months  of  our  residence 
in  our  new  home,  our  Saturday  evenings  were  by  no  means  what 
they  used  to  be.  And  yet  I  can  hardly  say  that  my  father  was 
at  this  time  a  devout  man.  I  think  it  was  more  a  matter  of 
custom. 

Of  political  convictions,  my  father  had  none  of  any  sort  or  kind 
whatever.  He  sternly  refused  to  qualify  himself,  or  to  express 
any  o{)inion  on  politics,  even  among  his  intimates  at  the  Black 
Lion  on  Saturday  evening.  The  reason  he  gave  was,  that  he 
had  a  large  family,  and  that  custom  was  custom.  Before  you  con- 
demn him  you  must  remember  that  he  had  never  had  a  chance 
in  his  life  of  informing  himself  on  public  affairs,  and  that  he 
showed  a  certain  sort  of  dogged  wisdom  in  refusing  to  be  led  by 
the  nose  by  the  idle  and  ignorant  chatterboxes  against  whom  he 
was  thrown  in  the  parlor  of  the  public-house. 

I  wish  he  had  shown  half  as  much  wisdom  with  regard  to 
another  matter,  and  I  wish  I  and  Joe  had  been  a  few  years  older 
before  he  went  so  far  into  it.  Joe  and  I  believed  in  him,  and 
egged  him  on,  as  two  simple,  affectionate  boys  might  be  expected 
to  do.  The  fact  is,  as  I  have  hinted  before,  that  my  father  had 
considerable  mechanical  genius,  and  was  very  fond  of  inventing ; 
but  then  he  was  an  utterly  ignorant  man,  could  scarcely  read  and 
write,  and  knew  nothing  of  what  attempts,  and  of  what  failures, 
had  been  made  before  his  time. 

As  ill  luck  would  have  it,  his  first  attempt  in  this  line  was  a 
great  success.  He  invented  a  centrifugal  screw-plate,  for  cutting 
very  long  and  large  male  screws  almost  instantaneously.  He 
produced  the  handles  of  an  ordinary  screw-plate  (carrying  a  nut 
two  inches  diameter),  two  feet  each  way,  and  weighted  them  heav- 
ily at  the  ends.  This,  being  put  on  a  lathe,  was  made  to  revolve 
rapidly,  and  by  means  of  an  endless  screw,  approached  the  bar  of 
iron  to  be  operated  on  when  it  was  spinning  at  its  extreme  veloc- 
ity. It  caught  the  bar  and  ran  up  it  as  though  it  were  wood,  cut- 
ting a  splendid  screw.  A  large  building  firm,  who  needed  these 
great  screws  for  shores,  and  centres  of  arches,  and  so  on,  bought 
the  patent  from  my  father  for  seventy  pounds. 

This  was  really  a  pretty  and  useful  invention.  jNIy  mother 
went  blazing  down  the  street  to  church  in  a  blue-silk  gown  and 
a  red  bonnet,  and  the  gold  and  marqueterie  in  Lord  Dacres's 
great  monument  paled  before  her  glory.  It  was  all  very  well, 
and  would  have  been  better  had  my  futlier  been  content  to  leave 
well  alone. 


78  THE    HILLYARS  AND   THE   BURTONS. 

But  he  wasn't.  I  never  knew  a  man  worth  much  who  was. 
The  very  next  week  he  was  hard  at  work  on  his  new  treadle- 
boat.  We  were  saved  from  that.  The  evil  day  was  staved  off 
by  Erne  Ilillyar. 

Joe,  among  other  benefits  he  was  receiving  as  head  boy  at  the 
parochial  scliool,  was  getting  a  fair  knowledge  of  mechanical  draw- 
ing ;  so  he  had  undertaken  to  make  the  drawings  for  this  new  in- 
vention. I  had  undertaken  to  sit  next  him  and  watch,  keeping 
Fred  quiet ;  my  father  sat  on  the  o*her  side  ;  Frank  lay  on  his 
back  before  the  fire,  singing  softly ;  and  the  rest  were  grouped 
round  Harry.  Emma  went  silently  hither  and  thither  about 
housework,  only  coming  now  and  then  to  look  over  Joe's  shoul- 
der; while  my  mother  sat  still  beside  the  fire,  with  her  arms 
folded,  buried  in  thought.  She  had  been  uneasy  in  her  mind  all 
the  evening ;  the  green-grocer  had  told  her  that  potatoes  would 
be  dear  that  autumn,  and  that  "  Now  is  your  time,  Mrs.  Burton, 
and  I  can't  say  no  fairer  than  that."  She  had  argued  the  matter, 
in  a  rambling,  desultory  way,  with  any  one  who  would  let  her, 
the  whole  evening,  and  was  now  arguing  it  with  herself.  But  all 
of  a  sudden  she  cried  out,  "  Lord  a  mercy !  "  and  rose  up. 

It  was  not  any  new  phase  in  the  potato-question  which  caused 
her  exclamation  ;  it  was  Erne  Hillyar.  "  I  knocked,  Mrs.  Bur- 
ton," he  said,  ''  and  you  did  not  hear  me.     May  I  come  in  ?  " 

We  all  rose  up  to  welcome  him,  but  he  said  he  would  go  away 
again  if  we  did  not  sit  exactly  as  we  were ;  so  we  resumed  our 
positions,  and  he  came  and  sat  down  beside  me,  and  leant  over 
me,  apparently  to  look  at  Joe's  drawing. 

"  I  say,  Jim,"  he  whispered,  "  I  have  run  away  again." 

I  whispered,  "  Would  n't  his  pa  be  terrible  anxious  ?  " 

"  Not  this  time  he  won't.  He  will  get  into  a  wax  this  time. 
I  don't  want  him  to  know  where  I  come.  If  I  go  to  the  Parker's, 
they  will  tell  him  I  don't  spend  all  the  time  with  them.  I  shall 
leave  it  a  mystery." 

I  was  so  glad  to  see  him,  that  I  was  determined  to  make  him 
say  something  which  I  liked  to  hear.  I  said,  "  Why  do  you  come 
here,  sir  ?  " 

"  To  see  you,  gaby,"  he  said ;  and  I  laughed.  "  And  to  see 
Emma  also  :  so  don't  be  conceited.     What  are  you  doing  ?  " 

My  father  and  Joe  explained  the  matter  to  him,  and  his  coun- 
tesjiance  grew  grave,  but  he  said  nothing.  Very  soon  afterwards, 
Emma  and  he  and  I  had  mana2;ed  to  i2;et  into  a  corner  to^rether 
by  the  iire,  and  were  talking  together  confidentially. 

Erne  told  Emma  of  his  having  run  away,  and  she  was  very 
angry  with  him.  Slie  said  that,  if  he  came  so  again,  she  would 
not  speak  one  word  to  him.  Erne  pleaded  with  her,  and  defended 
himself.     He  said  I  was  the  only  friend  he  had  ever  made,  and 


TUE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  79 

that  it  was  hard  if  he  was  never  to  see  me.  She  said  that  was 
true,  but  that  lie  should  not  do  it  in  an  underhand  way.  lie  said 
he  must  do  it  so,  or  not  do  it  at  all.  She  said  tliat  her  brother 
was  not  one  that  need  be  run  away  to,  or  sought  in  holes  and 
corners.  lie  said  that  she  knew  nothing  of  the  world  and  its 
prejudices,  and  that  he  should  take  his  own  way.  She  said  it 
was  time  for  Fred  to  go  to  bed,  and  she  must  wish  him  good- 
night;  so  they  quarrelled,  until  Fred's  artificial  shell  —  pinafore, 
frock,  and  all  the  rest  of  it  —  was  unbuttoned  and  unhooked,  and 
nothing  remained  but  to  slip  him  out  of  it  all,  and  stand  him 
down,  with  nothing  on  but  his  shoes  and  stockings,  to  warm  his 
stomach  by  the  fire.  When  this  was  done.  Erne  came  round  and 
lioj)ed  she  was  n't  angry  with  him.  He  said  he  would  always  try 
to  do  as  she  told  him,  but  that  he  must  and  would  come  and  seo 
us.  And  she  smiled  at  him  again,  and  said  she  was  sure  that  wo 
three  would  always  love  one  another,  as  long  as  we  lived ;  and 
then,  having  put  on  Fred's  night-gown,  she  carried  him  up  to  bed, 
singing  as  she  went. 

When  Erne  had  done  looking  after  her,  he  turned  to  me,  and 
said :  — 

"  Jim,  she  is  right.  I  must  not  come  sneaking  here.  I  must 
have  it  out  with  the  governor.  I  have  told  old  Compton  about 
it,  and  sworn  him  to  secrecy.  Now  for  some  good  news.  Do 
you  remember  what  you  told  me  about  the  Thames  ?  " 

"  Do  you  mean  how  it  was  getting  to  stink  ?  " 

"  No,  you  great  Hammersmith.  I  mean  about  sailing  up  it  in 
a  boat,  as  Joe  and  you  and  your  cousin  did ;  and  all  the  tulip- 
trees  and  churches  and  tea-gardens.'*  I  dimly  perceived  that 
Erne  wished  me  to  take  the  ajsthctical  and  picturesque  view  of 
the  river,  rather  than  the  sanitary  and  practical.  By  way  of 
showing  him  I  understood  him,  I  threw  in :  — 

"  Ah  !  and  the  skittle-alleys  and  fiag-stafFs." 

"  Exactly,"  he  said.  "  It 's  a  remarkable  fact,  that  in  my  ar- 
gument with  my  father  I  dwelt  on  that  very  point,  —  that  iden- 
tical point,  I  assure  you.  There 's  your  skittles  again,  I  said ; 
there 's  a  manly  game  for  you.  He  did  n't  see  it  in  that  light  at 
first,  I  allow ;  because  he  told  me  not  to  be  an  ass.  But  I  have 
very  little  doubt  I  made  an  impression  on  him.  At  all  events,  I 
have  gained  the  main  point :  you  will  allow  that  I  triumphed." 

I  said  "  Yes  "  ;  I  am  sure  I  do  n't  know  why.  I  liked  to  have 
him  there  talking  to  me,  and  would  have  said  "  Yes  "  to  any- 
thing. We  two  might  have  rambled  on  for  a  long  while,  if  Joe, 
who  had  come  up,  and  was  standing  beside  me,  had  not  said,  — 

"  How,  sir,  may  I  ask  ?  " 

*'  Why,  by  getting  him  to  take  a  house  at  Kew.  I  am  to  go 
to  school  at  Dr.  Mayby's,  and  we  are  going  to  keep  boats,  and 


80  THE  HILLYAES  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

punts,  and  things.  And  I  am  going  to  see  whether  that  pleasant 
cousin  of  yours,  of  whom  you  have  told  me,  can  be  induced  to 
come  up  and  be  our  waterman,  and  teach  me  to  row.  Where  is 
your  cousin,  by  the  by  ?  " 

He  was  out  to-night,  we  said.  He  might  be  in  any  moment. 
Erne  said,  "  No  matter.  Now,  Mr.  Burton,  I  want  to  speak  to 
you,  and  to  Joe." 

My  father  was  all  attention.  Erne  took  the  drawings  of  the 
treadle-boat  from  my  father,  and  told  him  that  the  thing  had 
been  tried  fifty  times,  and  had  failed  utterly  as  compared  with 
the  oar;  that,  with  direct  action,  you  could  not  gain  sufficient 
velocity  of  revolution ;  and  that,  if  you  resorted  to  multiplying 
gear,  the  loss  of  power  sustained  by  friction  was  so  enormous  as 
to  destroy  the  whole  utility  of  the  invention.  He  proved  his 
case  clearly.  Joe  acquiesced,  and  so  did  my  flxther.  The  scheme 
was  abandoned  there  and  then ;  and  I  was  left  wondering  at  the 
strange  mixture  of  sound  common  sense,  knowledge  of  the  sub- 
ject, and  simplicity  of  language,  which  Erne  had  shown.  I 
soon  began  to  see  that  he  had  great  talents  and  very  great  read- 
ing, but  that,  from  his  hermit-like  life,  his  knowledge  of  his  fel- 
lo\Y-creatures  was  lower  than  Harry's. 

He  had  got  a  bed,  it  appeared,  at  the  Cadogan  Hotel  in 
Sloane  Street,  and  I  walked  home  with  him.  I  was  surprised,  I 
remember,  to  find  him,  the  young  gentleman  who  had  just  put 
us  so  clearly  right  on  what  was  an  important  question  to  us,  and 
of  which  we  were  in  the  deepest  ignorance,  asking  the  most 
simple  questions  about  the  things  in  the  shop-windows  and  the 
people  in  the  streets,  —  what  the  things  (such  common  things  as 
bladders  of  lard  and  barrels  of  size)  were  used  for,  and  what 
they  cost  ?  The  costermongers  were  a  great  source  of  attraction 
to  him,  for  the  King's  Road  that  night  was  nearly  as  full  of  them 
as  the  New  Cut.  "  See  here,  Jim,"  he  said,  "  here  is  a  man  with 
a  barrow  full  of  the  common  murex ;  do  they  eat  them  ? "  I 
replied  that  we  ate  them  with  vinegar,  and  called  them  whelks. 
Periwinkles  he  knew,  and  recognized  as  old  friends,  but  tripe 
was  a  sealed  book  to  him.  I  felt  such  an  ox-like  content  and 
complacency  in  hearing  his  voice  and  having  him  near  me,  that 
we  might  have  gone  on  examining  this  world,  so  wonderfully  new 
to  him,  until  it  was  too  late  to  get  into  his  hotel ;  but  he  luckily 
thought  of  it  in  time.  I,  remembering  the  remarks  of  a 
ribald  station-master  on  a  former  occasion,  did  not  go  within 
reach  of  the  hotel-lights.  We  parted  affectionately,  and  so 
ended  his  second  visit. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  81 


CHAPTER    XVII. 

ERNE  AND  REUBEN. 

The  next  morning  my  father  and  I  were  informed  that  Mr. 
Compton  would  be  gLid  to  speak  to  us ;  and,  on  going  indoors, 
there  he  was,  as  comforable  and  as  neat  as  ever. 

"  "Well,  Burton,"  he  said,  cheerily,  "  how  does  the  world  use 
you  ?  As  you  deserve,  apparently,  for  you  have  n't  grown  older 
this  fifteen  years." 

My  father  laughed,  and  said,  "  Better,  he  was  afeared.  His 
deservings  were  n't  much.     And  how  was  Mr.  Compton  ?  " 

"  Well,  thankee.  Anything  in  my  way  ?  Any  breach  of 
patent,  eh.''  Remember  me  when  your  fortune 's  made.  What 
a  hulking  great  fellow  Jim  is  getting !  What  do  you  give  him 
to  eat,  hey,  to  make  him  grow  so .'' " 

My  father  was  delighted  to  give  any  information  to  his  old 
friend.  He  began  to  say  that  sometimes  I  had  one  thing  and 
sometimes  another,  —  may  be,  one  day  beef  and  another  mutton. 
"  Jints,  you  understand,"  said  my  father ;  "  none  of  your  kag- 
mag  and  skewer  bits  —  " 

"And  a  pretty  good  lot  of  both,  I'll  be  bound.  Was  Erne 
here  last  night,  Jim  ?  " 

You  might  have  knocked  me  down  with  a  feather.  I  had 
not  the  wildest  notion  that  Mr.  Compton,  a  very  old  acquaintance 
of  my  father,  knew  anything  about  the  Hillyars.     I  said  "Yes." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it,"  he  said.  "  There 's  a  devil  of  a 
row  about  him  at  home.     I  hope  he  has  gone  back." 

I  said  that  he  was  gone  back. 

My  father  said,  "  Look  here,  Mr.  Compton.  I  cannot  say  how 
glad  I  am  you  came  to-day,  of  all  men.  I  and  my  wife  are  in 
great  trouble  about  Master  Erne  and  his  visits,  and  we  don't 
rightly  know  what  to  do." 

"  I  am  in  trouble  also  about  the  boy,"  said  Mr.  Compton ; 
"  but  I  do  know  what  to  do." 

"  So  sure  am  I  of  that,  sir,"  said  my  father,  "  that  I  was  going 
to  look  you  up,  and  ask  your  advice." 

"  And  I  came  down  to  consult  with  you ;  and  so  here  we  are. 
How  much  does  Jim  know  about  all  this  ?  " 

"  A  good  deal,"  said  my  father ;  "  and,  if  you  please,  I  should 
wish  him  to  know  everything." 

"  Very  well,  then,"  continued  Mr.  Compton,  "  I  will  speak  be- 
4*  F 


.62  THE  HILLYAES  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

fore  him  as  if  he  was  not  here.  You  know  this  young  gentle- 
man has  not  been  brought  up  in  an  ordinary  way,  —  that  he 
knows  nothing  of  the  world  ;  consequently  I  was  teri-ibly  fright- 
ened as  to  where  he  might  have  run  away  to.  When  he  told 
me  where  he  had  been,  I  was  easy  in  my  mind,  but  determined 
to  come  and  speak  to  yon,  whom  I  have  known  from  a  child. 
What  I  ask  of  you  is,  Encourage  him  here,  Burton  and  Jim, 
but  don't  let  any  one  else  get  hold  of  him.  He  can  get  nothing 
but  good  in  your  house,  I  know.  By  what  strange  fatality  he 
selected  your  family  to  visit,  I  cannot  conceive.  It  was  a  merci- 
ful accident." 

I  told  him  about  the  yellow  water-lilies. 

"  Hah,"  he  said,  "  that  removes  the  wonder  of  it.  Now  about 
his  father." 

"  I  should  think,"  said  my  father,  "  that  Sir  George  would 
hardly  let  him  come  here,  after  hearing  our  name  ?  " 

"  He  does  not  know  that  you  are  any  connexion  with  our  old 
friend  Samuel.  I  don't  see  why  we  should  tell  him,  —  I  don't 
indeed.     It  is  much  better  to  let  bygones  be  bygones." 

"  Do  you  know  that  his  son  lives  with  us  now  ?  " 

"  Yes.     You  mean  Reuben.     How  is  he  going  on  ?  " 

."  Capital,  —  as  steady  and  as  respectable  as  possible." 

"  Well,  then,"  said  Mr.  Compton,  "  for  his  sake  we  should  not 
be  too  communicative.  Sir  George  knows  nothing  of  you.  He 
only  knows  your  name  from  my  father's  having  unfortunately 
recommended  Samuel  to  him.  I  think,  if  you  will  take  my  ad- 
vice, we  will  keep  our  counsel.     Good-bye,  old  friend." 

Mr.  Compton  and  my  father  were  playfellows.  The  two 
families  came  from  the  same  village  in  Kent,  and  Mr.  Compton 
had,  unfortunately,  recommended  Samuel  Burton  to  Sir  George 
Hillyar. 

Three  days  afterwards  Erne  came  in,  radiant.  "  It  was  all 
right,"  he  said ;  "  he  was  to  come  whenever  he  could  get  away." 

"  We  had  an  awful  row  though,"  he  continued  ;  "  I  got  old 
Compton  to  come  home  with  me.  'Where  have  you  been,  sir?' 
my  father  said  in  an  awful  voice,  and  I  said  I  had  been  seeing 
my  friends,  the  Burtons,  who  were  blacksmiths,  —  at  least  all  of 
them  except  the  women  and  children,  —  in  Church  Place,  Chel- 
sea. He  stormed  out  that,  if  I  must  go  and  herd  with  black- 
guards, I  might  choose  some  of  a  less  unlucky  name,  and  frequent 
a  less  unlucky  house.  I  said  I  did  n't  name  them,  and  that  there- 
fore that  part  of  the  argument  was  disposed  of;  and  that,  as  for 
being  blackguards,  they  were  far  superior  in  every  point  to  any 
family  I  had  ever  seen ;  and  that  their  rank  in  life  was  as  high 
as  that  of  my  mother,  and  therefore  high  enough  for  me.  He 
stood  aghast  at  my  audacity,  and  old  Compton  came  to  my  as- 


THE  lULLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  83 

Bi^jtance.  He  told  me  afterwards  that  I  had  showed  magnificent 
powers  of  debute,  hut  tliat  I  must  be  careful  not  to  get  a  habit 
of  hard-hitting,  —  Lord  knows  what  he  meruit.  He  told  my 
father  that  these  Burtons  were  really  everything  that  was  desir- 
able, and  went  on  no  end  about  you.  Then  I  told  him  that  I 
had  his  own  sanction  for  my  proceedings,  for  that  he  himself  had 
given  me  leave  to  make  your  acquaintance.  He  did  not  know 
that  it  was  yoit  I  had  been  to  see,  and  was  moUificd  somewhat. 
I  was  ordered  to  leave  the  room.  When  I  came  back  again,  I 
just  got  the  tail  of  the  storm,  which  was  followed  by  sunshine. 
To  tell  you  the  truth,  he  came  to  much  easier  than  I  liked.  But 
here  we  are,  at  all  events." 

We  sat  and  talked  together  for  a  short  time ;  and,  while  wo 
were  talking,  Reuben  came  in.  Erne  was  sitting  with  his  back 
towards  the  door ;  Reuben  advanced  towards  the  fire  from  be- 
hind him,  and,  seeing  a  young  gentleman  present,  took  off  his 
cap  and  smoothed  his  hair.  How^  well  I  can  remember  those 
two  faces  together.  The 'contrast  between  them  impressed  me 
in  a  vague  sort  of  way  even  then  ;  I  could  not  have  told  you 
why  at  that  time,  though  I  might  now.  Men  who  only  get  edu- 
cated somewhat  late  in  life,  like  myself,  receive  impressions  and 
recognize  facts,  for  which  they  find  no  reason  till  long  after :  so 
those  two  faces,  so  close  together,  puzzled  me  even  then  for  an 
instant,  for  there  was  a  certain  similarity  of  expression,  though 
probably  none  in  feature.  There  was  a  look  of  reckless  audacity 
in  both  faces,  —  highly  refined  in  that  of  Erne,  and  degenerating 
into  mere  devil-may-care,  cockney  impudence  in  that  of  Reuben. 
Joe,  who  was  with  me,  remarked  that  night  in  bed,  that  either  of 
them,  if  tied  up  too  tight,  would  break  bounds  and  become  law- 
less. That  was  true  enough,  but  I  saw  more  than  that.  Among 
other  things,  I  saw  that  there  was  far  more  determination  in. 
Erne's  beautiful  set  mouth  than  in  the  ever-shifting  lips  of  my 
Cousin  Reuben,  I  also  saw  another  something,  to  which,  at  that 
time,  I  could  give  no  name. 

Reuben  came  and  leant  against  the  fireplace,  and  I  introduced 
him.  Erne  immediately  shook  hands  and  made  friends.  We 
had  not  settled  to  talk  when  Emma  came  in,  and,  after  a  kind 
greeting  between  Erne  and  her,  sat  down  and  began  her  work. 

''  You  're  a  waterman,  are  you  not,  Reuben  ?  "  said  Erne. 

Reuben  was  proud  to  say  he  was  a  full  waterman. 

"  It  is  too  good  luck  to  contemplate,"  said  Erne  ;  "  but  we 
want  a  waterman,  in  our  new  place  at  Kew,  to  look  after  boats 
and  attend  me  when  I  bathe,  to  see  I  don't  drown  myself.  I 
suppose  you  would  n't  —  eh  ?  " 

Reuben  seemed  to  think  he  would  rather  like  it.  He  looked 
at  Emma. 


84  THE  niLLYAES  AXD   TUE   BURTONS. 

"  Just  what  I  mean,"  said  Erne.     "  What  do  you  say,  Emma  ?  " 

Emma  looked  steadily  at  Reuben,  and  said  quietly : 

"  If  it  suits  Reuben,  sir,  I  can  answer  for  him.  Answer  for 
liim  in  every  way.     Tell  me,  Reuben.     Can  I  answer  for  you  ?  " 

Reuben  set  his  mouth  almost  as  steadily  as  Erne's,  and  said 
she  miglit  answer  for  him. 

"  Then  w  ill  you  come  ?  "  said  Erne.  "  That  will  be  capital. 
Don't  you  think  it  will  be  glorious,  Emma  ?  " 

"  I  think  it  will  be  very  nice,  sir.  It  will  be  another  link  be- 
tween you  and  my  brother." 

"  And  between  myself  and  you." 

"  That  is  true  also,"  said  Emma.  "  And  I  cannot  tell  you  how 
glad  I  am  of  that,  because  I  like  you  so  very,  very  much.  Next 
to  Jim,  and  Joe,  and  Reuben,  I  think  I  like  you  better  than  any 
boy  I  know." 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

JAMES  BURTON'S   STORY:    REUBEN  AND   SIR    GEORGE  HILLYAR. 

Golden  hours,  wdiich  can  never  come  back  any  more.  Hours 
as  peaceful  and  happy  as  the  close  of  a  summer  Sabbath,  among 
dark  whispering  elm-woods,  or  on  quiet  downs,  aloft  above  the 
murmuring  village.  Was  it  on  that  evening  only,  or  was  it  on 
many  similar  evenings,  that  we  all  sat  together,  in  a  twilight 
which  seemed  to  last  for  hours,  before  tlie  fire,  talking  quietly 
together?  Why,  when  at  this  distance  of  time  I  recall  those 
gatherings  before  the  fire,  in  the  quaint  draughty  old  room,  do  I 
always  think  of  such  things  as  these?  —  of  dim,  vast  cathedrals, 
when  the  service  is  over,  and  the  last  echoes  of  the  organ  seem 
still  rambling  in  the  roof,  trying  to  break  away  after  their  fellows 
towards  heaven,  —  of  quiet  bays  between  lofty  chalk  headlands, 
where  one  lies  and  basks  the  long  summer  day  before  the  gently 
murmuring  surf,  —  of  very  quiet  old  churches,  where  the  monu- 
ments of  the  dead  are  crowded  thick  together,  and  the  afternoon 
sun  slopes  in  on  the  kneeling  and  lying  effigies  of  men  who  have 
done  their  part  in  the  great  English  work,  and  are  waiting,  with- 
out care,  without  anxiety,  for  their  wages  ?  Why  does  ray  ram- 
bling fancy,  on  these  occasions,  ever  come  back  again  to  the  long 
series  of  jDcaceful  and  quiet  images,  —  to  crimson  sunsets  during 
a  calm  in  mid  ocean,  —  to  high  green  capes,  seen  from  the  sea, 
the  sides  of  whose  long-drawn  valleys  are  ribbed  with  gray  rocks, 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  85 

—  to  curtains  of  purple  dolomite,  seen  from  miles  aw;iy  across 
tlie  yellow  plain,  cut  in  the  centre  by  a  silver  waterfall,  —  to 
great  icebergs  iloating  on  the  calm  blue  sea,  —  to  everything,  in 
short,  which  I  have  seen  in  my  life  which  speaks  of  peace  ? 
And  why,  again,  do  I  always  come  at  last  to  the  wild  dim  blue 
promontory,  whose  wrinkled  downs  are  half  obscured  by  clouds 
of  wind-driven  spray  ? 

How  many  of  these  evenings  were  there  ?  There  must  have 
been  a  great  many,  because  I  remember  that  Reuben  came  home 
for  the  winter  one  dead  drear  November  night,  and  Erne  accom- 
panied him  and  stayed  for  an  hour.  I  cannot  say  how  long  they 
lasted.     A  year  or  two,  first  and  last. 

AVhat  arose  out  of  them  that  is  noticeable  is  soon  told.  In 
the  first  place,  this  period  constituted  a  new  era  in  Joe's  life. 
Erne's  books  and  Erne's  knowledo-e  and  assistance  were  at  his 
service,  and  he  soon,  as  Erne  told  me,  began  to  bid  fair  to  be  a 
distinguished  scholar.  "  He  not  only  had  perseverance  and 
memory,  but  genius  also,"  said  Erne.  "  He  sees  the  meaning  of 
a  thing  quicker  than  I  do.     Joe  is  far  cleverer  than  I." 

At  first  I  had  been  a  little  anxious  about  one  thing,  though  I 
have  never  named  my  anxiety  to  any  one.  I  was  afraid  lest 
Reuben  should  become  jealous  of  Erne,  and  stay  away  from  us. 
It  was  not  so.  Reuben  grew  devoted  to  Erne,  and  seemed 
pleased  with  his  admiration  of  Emma.  I  began  to  see  that 
Emma's  influence  over  Reuben,  great  as  it  was,  arose  more  from 
a  sincere  respect  and  esteem  on  his  part  than  anything  else.  I 
was  therefore  glad  to  find  that  nothing  was  likely  to  interfere 
with  it.  As  for  Erne,  he  had  fallen  most  deeply  in  love  with 
her,  and  I  had  seen  it  from  the  beginning. 

I,  for  my  part,  in  my  simplicity,  could  see  no  harm  in  that.  In 
xact,  it  seemed  to  me  an  absolutely  perfect  arrangement  that  these 
two  should  pass  their  lives  in  a  fool's  paradise  together.  As  for 
my  father  and  mother,  they  looked  on  us  all  as  a  parcel  of  chil- 
dren, and  nothing  more  ;  and,  besides,  they  both  had  the  blindest 
confidence  in  Emma,  child  as  she  was.  At  all  events,  I  will  go 
bail  that  no  two  people  ever  lived  less  capable  of  any  design  on 
Erne's  rank  or  property.  I  insult  them  by  mentioning  such  a 
subject. 

Whether  it  was  that  I  had  represented  Sir  George  Ilillyar  to 
Reuben  as  a  very  terrible  person,  or  whether  it  was  that  Reuben's 
London  assurance  would  not  stand  the  test  of  the  chilling  atmos- 
phere of  the  upper  classes,  I  cannot  say  ;  but  Reuben  was  cowed. 
AVhen  the  time  came  for  him  to  fulfil  his  engagement  to  go  to 
Kew  and  take  care  of  Sir  George  Hilly ar's  boats,  he  grew  anx- 
ious and  fidgetty,  and  showed  a  strong  tendency  to  back  out  of 
the  whole  business. 


86  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  I  say,  Emma,  old  woman,"  he  said,  the  night  before  I  was 
to  go  with  him  and  introduce  him,  "  I  wish  I  was  well  out  of  this 
here." 

"  Well  out  of  what,  Reuben  dear  ?  "  said  Emma.  —  "  And  no 
body  but  the  child  and  the  two  angels  knew  as  the  crossing 
sweeper  boy  was  gone  to  heaven  ;  but,  when  they  got  up  there, 
he  was  awaiting  for  'em,  just  as  the  angel  in  blue  had  told  the 
angel  in  pink  silk  and  spangles  he  would  be."  (Tliis  last  was 
only  the  tail  of  some  silly  story  which  she  had  been  telling  the 
little  ones ;  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  plot). 

"  Why,  well  out  of  going  up  to  Kew,  to  look  after  these  boats. 
The  old  CO  —  gentleman,  I  should  say,  is  a  horrid  old  painted 
Mussulman.  When  he  do  go  on  the  war-train,  which  is  twenty- 
four  hours  a  day,  —  no  allowance  for  meals,  —  he  is  everlastingly 
a-digging  up  of  liis  tommyawk.  All  the  servants  is  prematurely 
gray;  and,  if  the  flowers  don't  blow  on  the  very  day  set  down  in 
the  gardening  column  of  BeWs  Life,  he  's  down  on  the  gardeners, 
till  earthquakes  and  equinoctials  is  a  fool  to  him." 

"'  Ain't  you  talking  nonsense,  Reuben  dear  ?  "  said  Emma. 

"  May  be,"  said  Reuben,  quietly.  "  But,  by  all  accounts,  he  is 
the  most  exasperating  bart  as  ever  was  since  barts  was,  which 
was  four  years  afore  the  first  whycount  married  the  heiress  of 
the  gi'eat  cod-liver-oil  manufacturer  at  Battersea.  It  flew  to  his 
lower  extremities,"  continued  Reuben,  looking  in  a  comically  defi- 
ant manner  at  Emma,  and  carefully  putting  the  fire  together; 
"  and  he  drank  hisself  to  death  with  it.  He  died  like  a  bus-horse, 
in  consequence  of  the  grease  getting  into  his  heels.     Now ! " 

"  Have  you  quite  done,  Reuben  ?  "  asked  Emma. 

Reuben  said  he  had  finished  for  the  present. 

"  Then,"  said  Emma,  "  let  me  tell  you  that  you  are  very  fool 
ish  in  prejudicing  yourself  against  this  gentleman  from  what  you 
have  heard  at  the  waterside,  since  he  came  to  Kew.     However, 
I  am  not  altogether  sorry,  for  you  will  find  him  quite  different,  — 
quite  different,  I  assure  you." 

It  was  bedtime,  and  we  all  moved  up  stairs  together  in  a  com- 
pact body,  on  account  of  Frank.  That  tiresome  young  monkey, 
Harry,  in  an  idle  hour  —  when,  as  Dr.  AVatts  tells  us,  Satan  is 
ready  to  find  employment  —  had  told  Frank  that  the  Guy 
Fawkeses  lived  under  the  stairs,  and  had  produced  the  most 
tiresome  complications.  The  first  we  heard  of  it  was  one  day 
when  Frank  was  helping  Fred  down  stairs.  Fred  was  coming 
carefully  down  one  step  at  a  time,  sucking  his  thumb  the  while, 
and  holding  on  by  Frank,  when  Frank  suddenly  gave  a  sharp 
squeal,  and  down  the  two  came,  fifteen  stairs,  on  to  the  mat  at 
the  bottom.  To  show  the  extraordinary  tricks  which  our  imagi- 
nations play  with  us  at  times,  —  to  show,  indeed,  that  Mind  does 


THE  IIILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  87 

Foraetimes  triumph  over  Matter,  —  I  may  mention  tliat  Frank 
(the  soul  of  truth  and  honesty)  declared  })ositively  tliat  he  liad 
Been  an  arm  idothed  in  blue  cloth,  with  brass  buttons  at  the  wrist, 
thrust  itself  through  the  banisters,  and  try  to  catch  hold  of  his 
leg.  On  observing  looks  of  incredulity,  he  added  that  the  Hand 
of  the  Arm  was  full  of  brimstone  matches,  and  that  he  saw  the 
straw  coming  out  at  its  elbows.  After  this,  a  strong  escort  was 
necessary  every  night,  when  he  went  to  bed.  He  generally  pre- 
ferred going  up  i)ick-a-back  on  Reuben's  broad  shoulders,  feeling 
probably  safer  about  the  legs. 

How  well  I  remember  a  little  trait  of  character  that  night. 
Fred  conceived  it  more  manly  to  walk  up  to  bed  without  the 
assistance  even  of  Emma.  When  w^e  were  half-way  up  the 
great  staircase,  Reuben,  carrying  Frank,  raised  an  alarm  of 
Guy  Fawkeses.  We  all  rushed,  screaming  and  laughing,  up 
the  stairs,  and  when  we  gained  the  landing,  and  looked  back, 
we  saw  that  we  had  left  Fred  behind,  in  the  midst  of  all  the 
dreadful  peril  wliich  we  had  escaped.  But  the  child  toiled  stead- 
ily and  slowly  on  after  us,  with  a  broad  smile  on  his  face,  refus- 
ing to  hurry  himself  for  all  the  Guy  Fawkeses  in  the  world. 
When  he  got  his  Victoria  Cross  at  Delhi  for  staying  behind, 
that  he  might  bring  poor  Lieutenant  Tacks  back  on  his  shoul- 
ders, to  die  among  English  faces,  I  thought  of  this  night  on 
the  stairs  at  Chelsea.  He  hurried  no  faster  out  of  that  terrible 
musketry  fire  in  the  narrow  street  than  he  did  from  the  Guy 
Fawkeses  on  the  stairs.  Among  all  Peel's  heroes,  there  was 
no  greater  hero  than  'our  big-headed  Fred.  The  post-captain 
who  has  got  Frederick  Burton  for  his  boatswain  is  an  envied 
and  lucky  man  to  this  day. 

Reuben,  who  had  to  toil  up  stairs  to  his  lonely  haunted  room 
at  the  top  of  the  house,  asked  me  to  come  with  him.  Of  course 
I  went,  though,  great  lubberly  lad  as  I  w'as,  I  remember  having 
an  indistinct  dread  of  coming  down  again  by  myself. 

There  was  a  dull  fire  burning,  and  the  great  attic  looked 
horribly  ghostly ;  and,  as  I  sat  before  the  fire,  strange  unearthly 
draughts  seemed  to  come  from  the  deserted  and  still  more  ghostly 
room  beyond,  which  struck,  now  on  this  shoulder  and  now  on 
that,  with  a  chill,  as  if  something  was  laying  its  hand  on  me. 
Reuben  had  lit  a  candle,  but  that  did  not  make  matters  better, 
but  a  great  deal  worse ;  for,  when  I  looked  at  his  face  by  the  light 
of  it,  I  saw  that  he  looked  wild  and  wan,  and  was  ashy  pale. 

He  took  a  letter  from  the  pocket  of  his  pea-jacket,  and  burnt 
it.     Before  it  wiis  quite  consumed,  he  turned  to  me,  and  said:  — 

"Jim,  Jim,  dear  old  chai),  you  won't  desert  me,  will  you,  when 
it  comes,  and  I  can't  see  or  speak  to  Emma  or  the  kids  anymore? 
You  will  go  between  us  sometimes,  and  tell  her  and  them  that  I 


88  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

am  only  stupid  old  Reuben,  as  loves  'em  well,  by  G — ;  and  that 
I  ain't  changed  in  spite  of  all  ?  " 

I  was  iuliuitely  distressed.  The  fact  is,  that  I  loved  my  cousin 
Reuben,  —  in  a  selfish  way,  of  course.  I  had  a  certain  quantity 
of  rough,  latent  humor,  but  no  power  of  expression.  Reuben,  on 
a  mere  hint  from  me  of  some  gross  incongruity,  would  spin  out 
yard  after  yard  of  verbose,  fantastic  nonsense  to  the  text  which 
I  had  given  him.  He  was  necessary  to  me,  and  I  was  fond  of 
him  in  consequence. 

"  Reuben,  old  boy,"  I  said,  "  I  '11  go  to  death  with  you.  I  '11 
never,  never  desert  you,  I  tell  you.  If  you  have  been  led  away, 
Reuben,  why,  you  may  be  led  back  again."  I  took  his  hand,  and 
felt  that  I  was  as  pale  as  he.  "  Is  it  —  is  it  —  anything  that  will 
take  you  for  long.  Rube  ?  Shall  you  go  abcoad,  Rube  ?  "  And 
here,  like  a  young  fool,  I  burst  out  crying. 

"  Lord  bless  his  faithful  heart ! "  said  Reuben,  in  his  old  man- 
ner, "  /  have  n't  been  doing  of  nothink.  But,  Jim,  what  was  it 
you  said  just  now  ?  " 

I  said,  "  What  did  he  mean  ?  '  that  I  could  follow  him  to 
death?'" 

He  said,  "  Yes ;  that  is  what  I  meant.  And,  Jim,  old  chap,  it 
runs  to  that.  Not  for  me,  but  for  others.  In  my  belief,  Jim,  it 
runs  to  that.  Joe  could  tell  us,  but  we  musn't  ask  Joe.  Joe  's  a 
chap  as  is  rising  fa.-;t,  and  musn't  be  pulled  down  by  other  folk's 
troubles.  Lawyers  could  tell  us, — but.  Lord  love  you,  we  musn't 
ask  no  lawyers.  We  'd  best  know  nothing^about  it  than  ask  thej^ 
And  you  musn't  know  nothing  either ;  only  don't  desert  me,  old 
Jim." 

I  said  again  that  I  would  not.  And,  if  ever  I  kept  my  w^ord, 
I  kept  that  promise. 

"  I  know  you  won't,"  he  said,  with  that  strange  mixture  of 
shrewdness,  rough  honor,  and  recklessness  which  one  finds  among 
Londoners  ;  "  but  then,  Jim,  if  you  are  true  to  me,  you  will  have, 
may  be,  to  know  and  not  to  know  at  one  and  the  same  time,  to  go 
with  a  guilty  breast  among  the  little  ones,  and  before  Emma. 
Better  leave  me,  Jim ;  better  leave  me  while  you  can." 

I  declared  I  would  not;  but  that  I  would  stick  by  him  and  give 
him  a  good  word  when  he  wanted  it.  And  then,  at  his  solicita- 
tion, I  stayed  with  him  all  niglit.  Once  he  woke,  and  cried  out 
that  the  barge  had  got  too  far  down  the  river,  and  was  drifting 
out  to  sea.  Then  that  the  cor[)ses  of  all  tlie  i)eople  who  had  com- 
mitted suicide  on  the  bridges  were  rising  up  and  looking  at  us.  I 
slept  but  little  after  this,  and  was  glad  when  morning  dawned. 

But  tlie  next  morning  Reuben  was  as  bright,  as  brisk,  and  as 
nonsensical  as  ever.  He  defied  Emma.  She  ventured  to  hope 
that  he  would  be  steady,  and  not  attend  to  everything  he  heard 


THE  niLLYARS   AND   THE  BUKTOXS.  89 

about  people  without  inquiry.  He  said  he  was  obliged  to  hor, 
and  would  n't ;  that  he  had  left  three  or  four  pair  of  old  boots 
up  stairs,  and,  if  she  M  be  good  enougli  to  send  'em  to  the  beadle 
and  get  'em  darned,  he  'd  Uiank  her.  Tlie  passion  and  earnest- 
ness of  last  night  was  all  gone  apparently.  Nothing  was  to  be 
got  from  him,  even  by  Emma,  but  chaff  and  nonsense.  The  tnie 
Loudon  soul  revolted  from,  and  was  ashamed  of,  the  passion  of 
last  night.  Even  with  me  he  seemed  half  ashamed  and  half 
cajitious. 

AYe  were  not  very  long  in  getting  to  Kew.  Early  as  we  were, 
the  servants  had  to  inform  us  that  Sir  George  and  Mr.  Erne  had 
gone  out  riding.  We  waited  in  the  servants'  hall,  in  and  out  of 
wliich  gray-headed  servants  came  now  and  then  to  look,  it  would 
seem,  at  the  strange  sight  of  two  round  young  faces  like  ours. 
About  nine  o'clock,  the  butler  came  and  asked  us  to  come  to 
prayers,  and  we  went  up  into  a  great  room,  where  breakfast  was 
laid,  and  made  the  end  of  a  long  row  of  servants,  sitting  with 
our  backs  against  a  great  sideboard,  while  a  gray-headed  old 
gentleman  read  a  very  long  prayer.  The  moment  we  were  alone 
together,  Reuben,  who  was  in  a  singularly  nervous  and  insolent 
mood,  objected  to  this  prayer  in  language  of  his  own,  which  I 
shall  not  repeat.  He  objected  that  three-quarters  of  it  was  con- 
sumed in  conveying  information  to  the  Deity,  concerning  our  own 
unworthiness  and  his  manifold  greatness  and  goodness  ;  and  that 
altogether  it  was  as  utterly  unlike  the  Lord's  Prayer  or  any  of 
the  Church  prayers  as  need  be. 

I  was  very  anxious  about  him.  I  dreaded  the  meeting  be- 
tween him  and  the  terrible  old  baronet.  I  was  glad  when  things 
came  to  a  crisis.  We  saw  Sir  George  come  riding  across  the 
park  on  a  beautiful  swift-stepping  gray  cob,  accompanied  by 
Erne  on  a  great,  nearly  thorough-bred  chestnut.  They  were 
talking  merrily  together  and  laughing.  They  were  certainly  a 
splendid  couple,  though  Erne  would  have  looked  to  better  ad- 
vantage on  a  smaller  horse.  They  rode  into  the  stable-yard, 
where  we  were  instructed  to  wait  for  them,  and  dismounted. 

"That,"  said  Sir  George  Hillyar,  advancing  and  pointing 
sternly  at  me  with  his  riding-whip,  "  is  the  boy  Burton.  I  have 
seen  him  before." 

This  previous  conviction  was  too  damning  to  be  resisted.  I 
pleaded  guilty. 

"  And  that  ?  "  said  he,  turning  almost  fiercely  upon  Reuben. 

Erne  stood  amused,  leaving  us  to  fight  our  own  battle.  I  said 
it  was  Rube. 

"  Who  ?  "  said  Sir  George. 

"  Reuben,  my  cousin,"  I  said,  "  that  was  come  to  take  care  of 
his  honor's  boats." 


90  THE  HILLY AES  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

Sir  George  looked  at  Reuben  for  full  a  minute  without  speak- 
ing, and  then  he  said,  "  Come  here,  you  young  monkey." 

As  Reuben  approached,  utterly  puzzled  by  this  style  of  recep- 
tion, I  noticed  a  look  of  curiosity  on  Sir  George's  face.  When 
Reuben  stood  before  him,  quick  as  light  Sir  George  turned  and 
looked  at  Erne  for  one  second,  and  then  looked  at  Reuben  again. 
Steadily  gazing  at  him,  he  pointed  the  handle  of  his  riding-whip 
towards  him,  and  said,  "  Look  here,  sirrah,  do  you  hear  ?  You 
are  to  have  fifteen  shilHngs  a  week,  and  are  to  put  three  half- 
crowns  in  the  savings'-bank.  You  are  to  get  up  at  seven,  to  say 
your  prayers,  to  clean  the  boats,  and  offer  to  help  the  gardener. 
If  he  is  fool  enough  to  accept  your  offer,  you  may  tell  him  that 
you  were  n't  hired  to  work  in  the  garden.  If  Mr.  Erne  bathes, 
you  are  to  row  round  and  round  him  in  a  boat,  and  try  to  prevent 
his  drowning  himself.  If  he  does,  you  are  to  send  a  servant  to 
me,  informing  me  of  the  fact,  and  go  for  the  drags.  If  such  a 
casualty  should  occur,  you  are  to  consider  your  engagement  as 
terminated  that  day  week.  I  object  to  skittles,  to  potting  at  pub- 
lic-houses, and  to  running  along  the  towing-path  like  a  lunatic, 
bellowing  at  the  idiots  who  row  boat-races.  Any  conversation 
with  my  son  Erne  on  the  subjects  of  pigeon-shooting,  pedestrian- 
ism,  bagatelle,  all-fours,  toy-terriers,  or  Non-conformist  doctrines, 
will  lead  to  your  immediate  dismissal.     Do  you  understand  ! " 

I  did  not ;  but  Erne  and  Reuben  did.  They  understood  that 
the  old  man  had  taken  a  fancy  to  Reuben,  and  was  making  fun. 
They  both  told  me  this,  and  of  course  I  saw  they  were  right  at 
once.  Still,  I  was  puzzled  at  one  thing  more.  Why,  after  he  had 
turned  away,  did  the  old  gentleman  come  back  after  a  few  steps, 
and  lay  his  hands  on  Reuben's  shoulders,  looking  eagerly  into 
his  face  ?  Could  he  see  any  likeness  to  his  father,  —  to  the  man 
who  had  used  him  so  cruelly,  —  to  Samuel  Burton  ?  I  could  not 
think  so.  It  must  have  been  merely  an  old  man's  fancy  for 
Reuben's  handsome,  merry  countenance ;  for  Sir  George  pushed 
him  away  with  a  smile,  and  bade  him  go  about  his  business. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  91 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

SAMUEL  BURTON  GOES  INTO  THE  LICENSED  VICTUALLING  LINE. 

As  Samuel  Burton  came,  hat  in  hand,  with  bent  and  cringing 
body,  into  George  Ilillyar's  office  in  the  barracks  at  Balmerston, 
George  Ilillyar  turned  his  chair  round  towards  him ;  and  when 
the  door  was  shut  behind  him,  and  the  trooper's  footfall  had  died 
away,  he  still  sat  looking  firmly  at  him,  without  speaking. 

He  could  not  turn  pale,  for  he  was  always  pale ;  he  could  not 
look  anxious,  for  he  had  always  a  worn  look  about  his  eyes. 
He  merely  sat  and  stared  steadily  at  the  bowing  convict,  with  a 
look  of  inquiry  in  his  face.     The  convict  spoke  first,  — 

"  I  have  not  seen  your  honor  for  many  years." 

"  Not  for  many  years,"  said  George  Hillyar. 

"  I  have  been  in  trouble  since  I  had  the  pleasure  of  seeing 
your  honor." 

"  So  I  understand,  Samuel,"  said  George. 

"  Thank  you.  Master  George,  for  that  kind  expression.  You 
have  not  forgot  me.     Thank  you,  sir." 

"  You  and  I  are  not  likely  to  forget  one  another,  are  we  ?  '* 
said  George  Hillyar. 

"  I  have  noticed,"  said  the  convict,  "  in  a  somewhat  chequered 
career,  that  the  memories  of  gentlefolks  were  weak,  and  wanted 
io2o:ino;  at  times  —  " 

'"  Look  here,"  said  George  Hillyar,  rising  coolly,  and  walking 
towards  the  man.  "  Let  me  see  you  try  to  jog  mine.  Let  me 
see  you  only  once  attempt  it.  Do  you  hear  ?  Just  try.  Are 
you  going  to  threaten,  hey  ?  D — n  you ;  just  try  it,  will  you. 
Do  you  hear  ?  " 

He  not  only  heard,  but  he  minded.  As  George  Hillyar  ad- 
vanced towards  him,  he  retreated,  until  at  last,  being  able  to  go 
no  farther,  he  stood  upright  against  the  weather-boards  of  the 
wall,  and  George  stood  before  him,  pointing  at  him  with  his 
finger. 

"  Bah  ! "  said  George  Hillyar,  after  a  few  seconds,  going  back 
to  his  chair.  "  Why  do  you  irritate  me  ?  You  should  know  my 
temper  by  this  time,  Samuel.  I  don't  want  to  quarrel  with 
you?" 

"  I  am  sure  you  don't,  sir,"  said  Burton. 

"  Why  are  you  sure  I  don't  ? "  snarled  George,  looking  at  him 


92  THE  HILLYARS  AXD  THE  BURTONS. 

angrily.     "  Why,  eli  ?     Why  are  you  sure  that  I  don't  want  to 
quarrel  with  you,  and  be  rid  ot  you  forever  ?     Hey  ?  " 

"  Oh  dear !  I  am  sure  I  don't  know,  sir.  I  meant  no  offence. 
I  am  very  humble  and  submissive.  I  do  assure  you,  Mr.  George, 
that  I  am  very  submissive.  I  did  n't  expect  such  a  reception, 
sir.  I  had  no  reason  to.  I  have  been  faithful  and  true  to  you, 
Mr.  George,  through  everything.  I  am  a  poor,  miserable,  used- 
up-man,  all  alone  in  the  world.  Were  I  ever  such  a  traitor,  Mr. 
George,  I  am  too  old  and  broken  by  trouble,  though  not  by  years, 
to  be  dangerous." 

The  cai-like  vitality  which  showed  itself  in  every  movement 
of  his  body  told  another  story  though.  George  Hillyar  saw  it, 
and  he  saw  also,  now  that  he  had  nad  an  instant  for  reflection, 
that  he  had  made  a  sad  mistake  in  his  way  of  receiving  the  man. 
The  consciousness  of  his  terrible  blunder  came  upon  him  with  a 
sudden  jar.  He  had  shown  the  man,  in  his  sudden  irritation,  that 
be  distrusted  and  hated  him ;  and  he  had  sense  to  see  that  no  ca- 
jolery or  flattery  would  ever  undo  the  mischief  which  he  had 
made  by  his  loss  of  temper,  and  by  a  few  wild  words.  He  saw 
by  the  man's  last  speech  that  the  miserable  convict  had  some 
sparks  of  love  left  for  his  old  master,  until  he  had  wilfully  tram- 
pled them  out  in  his  folly.  He  saw,  now  it  was  too  late,  that  he 
might  have  negotiated  successfully  on  the  basis  of  their  old  asso- 
ciation ;  and  at  the  same  time  that  he,  by  a  few  cruel  words,  had 
rendered  it  impossible.  The  poor  wretch  had  come  to  him  in 
humility,  believing  him  to  be  the  last  person  left  in  the  world 
who  cared  for  him.  George  had  rudely  broken  his  fancy  by  his 
causeless  suspicion,  and  put  the  matter  on  a  totally  different  foot- 
ing. 

He  clumsily  tried  to  patch  the  matter  up.  He  said,  "  There, 
I  beg  your  pardon  ;  I  was  irritated  and  nervous.  You  must  for- 
get all  I  have  said." 

"  And  a  good  deal  else  with  it,  sir,  I  am  afraid,"  said  Burton. 
"  Never  mind,  sir ;  I  '11  forget  it  all.     I  am  worse  than  I  was." 

"  Now  don't  you  get  irritated,"  said  George,  "  because  that 
would  be  very  ridiculous,  and  do  no  good  to  any  one.  If  you 
can't  stand  my  temper  after  so  many  years,  we  shall  never 
get  on." 

"  I  am  not  irritated,  sir.  I  came  to  you  to  ask  for  your  assist- 
ance, and  you  seem  to  have  taken  it  into  your  head  that  I  was 
going  to  threaten  you  with  old  matters.  I  had  no  intention  of 
anything  of  the  sort.  I  merely  thought  you  might  have  a  warm 
place  left  in  your  heart  for  one  who  served  you  so  well,  for  evil 
or  for  good.  I  am  very  humble,  sir.  If  I  were  ungrateful  enough 
to  do  so,  I  should  never  dare  to  try  a  game  of  bowls  with  an  In- 
spector of  Police  in  this  country,  sir.  I  only  humbly  ask  for  your 
assistance." 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  93 

"  Samuel,"  said  George  Ilillyar,  "  we  have  been  mistaking 
one  another." 

"  I  think  we  have,  sir,"  said  Burton. 

And,  ahhougli  George  looked  up  quickly  enough,  the  sly  scorn- 
ful expression  was  smoothed  out  of  Burton's  face,  and  he  saw 
nothing  of  it. 

"  I  am  sure  we  have,"  continued  George.  "  Just  be  reason- 
able. Suppose  I  did  think  at  first  that  you  were  going  to  try  to 
extort  money  from  me  :  why,  then,  it  all  comes  to  this,  that  I  was 
mistaken.     Surely  that  is  enough  of  an  apology." 

"  I  need  no  ajiologies,  Mr.  George.  As  I  told  you  before,  I 
am  only  submissive.  I  am  your  servant  still,  sir.  Only  your 
servant." 

"  What  am  I  to  do  for  you,  Samuel  ?     Anything?" 

"  I  came  here  to-day,  sir,  to  ask  a  favor.  The  feet  is,  sir,  I 
came  to  ask  for  some  money.  After  what  has  passed,  I  suppose 
I  may  go  away  again.  Nevertheless,  sir,  you  need  n't  be  afraid 
of  refusing.  I  have  n't  —  have  n't  —  Well,  never  mind  ;  all 
these  fears  to  turn  Turk  at  last,  with  such  odds  against  me,  too." 

"  How  much  do  you  want,  Samuel  ?  "  said  George  Hillyar. 

"  I  'II  tell  you,  sir,  all  about  it.  A  man  who  owes  me  money, 
an  old  mate  of  mine,  is  doing  well  in  a  public  house  at  Perth,  in 
West  Australia.  He  has  written  to  me  to  say  that,  if  I  will 
come,  I  shall  come  into  partnership  for  the  debt.  It  is  a  great 
opening  for  me  ;  I  shall  never  have  to  trouble  you  again.  Thirty 
pounds  would  make  a  gentleman  of  me  just  now.  I  say  nothing 
of  your  getting  rid  of  me  for  good  —  " 

"  You  need  say  nothing  more,  Samuel,"  said  George.  "  I  will 
give  you  the  money.     What  ship  shall  you  go  by  ?  " 

"  The  Windsor  sails  next  week,  sir,  and  calls  at  King  George's 
Sound.     That  would  do  for  me." 

"  Very  well,  then,"  said  George  ;  "  here  is  the  money ;  go  by 
her.  It  is  better  that  we  separate.  You  see  that  these  confi- 
dences, these  long  tete-a-tetes,  between  us  are  not  reputable.  I 
mean  no  unkindness ;  you  must  see  it." 

"  You  are  right,  sir,  It  shall  not  happen  again.  I  humbly 
thank  you,  sir.     And  I  bid  you  good  day." 

He  was  moving  towards  the  door,  when  George  Ilillyar 
turned  his  chair  away  from  him,  as  though  he  was  going  to  look 
out  of  window  into  the  paddock,  and  said,  "  Stop  a  moment, 
Samuel." 

The  convict  faced  round  at  once.  He  could  see  nothing  but 
the  back  of  George's  head,  and  George  seemed  to  be  sitting  in 
profound  repose,  staring  at  the  green  trees,  and  the  parrots 
which  were  whistling  and  chattering  among  the  boughs.  Bur- 
ton's snake-hke  eyes  gleamed  with  curiosity. 


94  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  You  watched  me  to-day  in  the  Post-office,"  said  George. 

"  Yes,  sir ;  but  I  did  not  think  you  saw  me." 

"  No  more  I  did.  I  felt  you,"  answered  George.  "  By  the 
by,  you  got  fourteen  years  for  the  Stanlake  business,  did  you 
not?" 

"  Yes,  sir  ;  fourteen  weary  years,"  said  Burton,  looking  inquir- 
ingly at  the  back  of  George's  head,  and  madly  wishing  that  he 
could  see  his  face. 

"  Only  just  out  now,  is  it?  "  said  George. 

"  I  was  free  in  eight,  sir.  Then  I  got  two.  I  should  have  got 
life  over  this  last  bank  robbery,  but  that  I  turned  Queen's  evi- 
dence." 

"  I  hope  you  will  mend  your  ways,"  said  George,  repeating, 
unconsciously,  Mr.  Oxton's  words  to  the  same  man  on  a  former 
occasion.     "  By  George,  Samuel,  why  don't  you  ?  " 

"  I  am  going  to,  sir,"  replied  Burton,  hurriedly ;  and  still  he 
stood,  without  moving  a  muscle,  staring  at  the  back  of  George 
Hillj^ar's  head  so  eagerly  that  he  never  drew  his  breath,  and  his 
red-brown  face  lost  its  redness  in  his  anxiety. 

At  last  George  spoke,  and  he  smiled  as  though  he  knew  what 
was  coming. 

"  Samuel,"  he  said,  "  I  believe  your  wife  died ;  did  she  not  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir,  she  died." 

"How  did  she  die?" 

"  Consumption." 

"  I  don't  mean  that.  I  mean,  what  was  her  frame  of  mind,  — 
there,  go  away,  for  God's  sake ;  there  will  be  some  infernal  scan- 
dal or  another  if  we  stay  much  longer.  Here !  Guard.  See 
this  man  out.  I  tell  you  I  won't  act  on  such  information.  Go 
along  with  you.  Unless  you  can  put  your  information  together 
better  than  that,  you  may  tell  your  story  to  the  marines  on  board 
the  Pelorus.     Go  away." 

Samuel  Burton  put  on  the  expression  of  face  of  a  man  who 
was  humbly  assured  that  his  conclusions  were  right,  and  only  re- 
quired time  to  prove  it.  It  was  an  easy  matter  for  those  facile, 
practised  features  to  twist  themselves  into  any  expression  in  one 
instant.  There  is  no  actor  like  an  old  convict.  He  sneaked 
across  the  yard  with  this  expression  on  his  face,  until  he  came  to 
the  gate,  at  which  stood  five  troopers,  watching  him  as  he  passed. 

He  could  n't  stand  it.  The  devil  was  too  strong  in  him.  Here 
were  five  of  these  accursed  bloodhounds,  all  in  blue  and  silver 
lace,  standing  looking  at  him  contemptuously,  and  twisting  their 
mustaches  :  five  policemen,  —  men  who  had  never  had  the  pluck 
to  do  a  dishonest  action  in  their  lives,  —  standing  and  sneering  at 
him^  who  knew  the  whole  great  art  and  business  of  crime  at  his 
fingers'  ends.     It  was  intolerable.     He  drew  himself  up,  and  be- 


THE  niLLYARS  AND  THE   BURTONS.  ^5 

gan  on  them.  It  was  as  if  a  little  Yankee  Monitor,  steaming 
past  our  Hcct  of  great  irou-elad  frigates,  should  suddenly,  s[)ite- 
fullj,  and  hopelessly  open  fire  on  it. 

I  can  see  the  group  now.  Tlie  five  big,  burly,  honest,  young 
men,  standing  sihjutly  and  (•ontem])tuously  lookintz;  at  Samuel  in 
the  bright  sunlight;  and  the  convict  sidling  past  them,  ruljbing 
his  hands,  with  a  look  of  burlesqued  politeness  in  his  face. 

"  And  good  day,  my  noble  captains,"  he  began,  with  a  sidelong 
bow,  his  head  on  one  side  like  a  cockatoo's,  and  his  eye  turned 
up  looking  nowhere.  "  Good  day,  my  veterans,  my  champions. 
JNIy  bonny,  pad-clinking,*  out-after-eight-o'clock-parade,  George 
Street  bucks,  good  day.  Does  any  one  of  you  know  aught  of 
one  trooper  Evans,  lately  quartered  at  Cape  Wilberforce  ?  " 

"  Ah !  "  said  the  youngest  of  the  men,  a  mere  lad ;  "  why,  he  s 
my  brother." 

"  No,"  said  Samuel,  who  was  perfectly  aware  of  the  fact. 
"  Well,  well !  It  seems  as  if  I  was  always  to  be  the  bearer  of 
bad  news  somehow." 

"  "What  d'  ye  mean,  old  man  ?  "  said  the  young  fellow,  turning 
pale.     "  There  's  nothing  the  matter  with  Bill,  is  there  ?  " 

Samuel  merely  shook  his  head  slowly.  His  enjoyment  of  that 
look  of  concern,  which  he  had  brought  upon  tlie  five  honest 
faces,  was  more  intense  than  anything  we  can  understand. 

"  Come,  cheer  up,  Tom,"  said  the  oldest  of  the  troopers  to  the 
youngest.  "  Speak  out,  old  man ;  don't  you  see  our  comrade  's 
in  distress  ?  " 

''  I  should  like  to  have  broke  it  to  him  by  degrees,"  said  Sam- 
uel ;  "  but  it  must  all  come  out.  Bear  up,  I  tell  you.  Take  it 
like  a  man.     Your  brother  's  been  took  ;  and  bail 's  refused." 

"  That 's  a  lie,"  said  Tom,  who  was  no  other  than  George  Hill- 
yar's  orderly.  "  If  you  tell  me  that  Bill  has  been  up  to  any- 
thing, I  tell  you  it 's  a  lie." 

"  He  was  caught,"  said  Samuel,  steadily,  "  boning  of  his  lieu- 
tenant's pomatum  to  ile  his  mustachers.  Two  Blacks  and  a 
Chinee  seen  him  a-doing  on  it,  and  when  he  was  took  his  'ands 
was  greasy.  Bail  was  refused  in  consequence  of  a  previous  con- 
viction a^ain  him,  for  robbin"^  a  blind  widder  woman  of  a  Bible 
and  a  old  possum  rug  while  she  was  attending  her  husl)and's 
funeral.  The  clerk  of  the  Bench  has  got  him  a-digging  in  his 
potato-garden  now  at  this  present  moment,  waiting  for  the  ses- 
sions. Good-bye,  my  beauties.  Keep  out  of  the  sun,  and  don't 
spile  your  complexions.     Good-bye." 

*  Alluding  to  the  clinking  of  their  spurs. 


90  THE  HILLYAES  AXD  THE  BURTONS. 


CHAPTER    XX. 

JAMES    BURTON'S    STORY  :     REUBEN    ENTERTAINS    lilYSTERIOUS 
AND   UNSATISFACTORY  COMPANY. 

I  AM  doubtful,  to  this  very  day,  whether  or  no  Sir  George 
Hillyar  knew  or  guessed  that  we  were  relations  of  Samuel  Bur- 
ton, the  man  who  had  robbed  him.  I  think  that  he  did  not 
know;  if  he  did,  it  was  evident  that  he  generously  meant  to 
ignore  it.  Mr.  Compton,  who  had  recommended  Samuel,  told  us 
to  say  nothing  about  it ;  and  we  said  nothing.  Emma  surprised 
Joe  and  me  one  night,  when  we  were  alone  together,  by  firing  up 
on  the  subject,  and  saying  distinctly  and  decidedly  that  she 
thought  we  were  all  wrong  in  not  telling  him.  I  was  rather  in- 
clined to  agree  with  her ;  but  what  was  to  be  done  ?  It  was  not 
for  us  to  decide. 

The  relations  between  the  two  families  were  becoming  very 
intimate  indeed.  Sir  George  Hillyar  had  taken  a  most  extraor- 
dinary fancy  for  Reuben,  which  he  showed  by  bullying  him  in  a 
petulant  way  the  whole  day  long,  and  by  continually  giving  him 
boots  and  clothes  as  peace-offerings.  Reuben  would  take  every- 
thing said  to  him  with  the  most  unfailing  good  humor,  and  would 
stand  quietly  and  patiently,  hat  in  hand,  before  Sir  George,  and 
rub  his  cheek,  or  scratch  his  head,  or  chew  a  piece  of  stick,  while 
the  "  jobation  "  was  going  on.  He  took  to  Sir  George  Hillyar 
amazingly.  He  would  follow  him  about  like  a  dog,  and  try  to 
anticipate  his  wishes  in  every  way.  He  did  not  seem  to  be  in 
the  least  afraid  of  him,  but  would  even  grin  in  the  middle  of  one 
of  Sir  George's  most  furious  tirades.  They  were  a  strange  couple, 
so  utterly  different  in  character  ;  Sir  George  so  ferociously  ob- 
stinate, and  Reuben  so  singularly  weak  and  yielding ;  and  yet 
they  had  a  singular  attraction  for  one  another. 

"  Erne,"  Sir  George  would  roar  out  of  window,  "  where  the 
devil  is  that  tiresome  monkey  of  a  waterman  ?  " 

"  I  have  n't  seen  him  to-day,"  Erne  would  reply.  "  He  has 
been  missing  since  last  night.  The  servants  think  he  has  drowned 
himself,  after  the  rowing  you  gave  him  last  night.  /  think  that 
he  has  merely  run  away.     If  you  like,  I  \vill  order  the  drags." 

"  Don't  you  be  a  jackanapes.     Find  him." 

Rueben  would  be  produced  before  the  window. 

"  May  I  take  the  liberty  of  asking  how  you  have  been  employ- 
ing your  time,  sir  ?    The  boats  are  not  cleaned."   . 


THE  HILLYARS  AND   THE   BURTONS.  97 

"  Cleaned  'em  by  nine  this  morning,  sir." 

"  You  have  not  fetched  home  tliat  punt-pole,  sir,  as  you  were 
expressly  ordered." 

''  Fetched  it  lioine  hist  night,  sir." 

"And  why  was  it  not  fetched  home  before,  sir?" 

"  The  old  cove  as  had  the  mending  on  it,"  Reuben  would  an- 
swer, going  otr  at  score  in  his  old  way,  "  has  fell  out  with  liis 
missis,  and  slie  hid  his  shoes  in  the  timber-yard,  and  went  off  to 
Hampton  fair  in  a  van,  along  with  Mrs.  Scuttle,  the  master- 
sweep's  lady,  and  he  had  to  lie  in  bed  till  she  came  bacli,  which 
was  n't  soon,  for  she  is  fond  of  society  and  calculated  to  adorn 
it ;  and,  when  she  come,  she  could  n't  remember  where  the  shoes 
was  put  to,  and  so  —  " 

'•  What  do  you  mean,  sir  ?  "  Sir  George  would  interrupt,  "  l)y 
raking  up  all  this  wretched  blackguardism  before  my  son  Erne  ?  " 

Reuben  would  say,  that  he  had  been  asked,  and  supposed  that 
he  did  right  in  answering ;  and  by  degrees  the  storm  would  blow 
over,  and  Reuben  would  in  some  way  find  himself  the  better  for 
it.  When  Erne  told  me  that  he  had  seen  his  father  sit  on  a 
bench  and  watch  Reuben  at  his  work  for  an  hour  too^ether,  I 
becran  to  think  that  Sir  Georfje  had  a  shrewd  guess  as  to  who 
Reuben  was ;  and  also  to  have  a  fancy  that  there  might  be  two 
sides  to  Samuel  Burton's  story ;  and  that  it  was  dimly  possible 
that  Sir  Geoi-cre  mio-lit  wish  to  atone  for  some  wrono;  which  he 
had  done  to  our  cousin.  But  I  said  nothing  to  any  one,  and  you 
will  see  whether  or  no  I  was  right  by  and  by. 

However,  Reuben's  success  with  Sir  George  was  quite  noto- 
rious in  our  little  circle.  My  mother  said  that  it  was  as  clear  as 
mud  that  Sir  George  intended  to  underswear  his  personalities  in 
Reuben's  favor.  1  might  have  wondered  what  she  meant,  but 
I  had  given  up  wondering  what  my  mother  meant,  years  ago,  as 
a  bad  j(jb. 

I  saw  Reuben  very  often  during  his  stay  at  Stanlake,  and  he 
was  always  the  very  Reuben  of  old  times,  —  reckless,  merry, 
saucy,  and  independent,  —  ready  to  do  the  first  thing  proposed, 
without  any  question  or  hesitation.  The  dark  cloud  which  had 
come  over  him  the  night  I  went  up  and  slept  with  him  in  the 
ghost-room  had  apparently  passed  away.  Twice  I  alluded  to  it, 
hut  was  only  answered  by  a  mad  string  of  Cockney  balderdash, 
like  his  answers  to  Sir  George  Hillyar,  one  of  which  I  have 
given  above  as  a  specimen.  The  third  time  I  alluded  to  the 
subject,  he  was  beginning  to  laugh  again,  but  I  stopped  him. 

'•  Ruhe,"  I  said,  looking  into  his  face,  "  I  don't  want  yoa  to  talk 
about  that  night.  I  want  you  to  remember  what  I  said  that 
night.  I  said.  Rube,  that,  come  what  would,  I  would  stick  bj 
you.     Remember  that." 

5  Q 


98  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  I  '11  remember,  old  Jim,"  he  said,  trying  to  langli  it  off.  But 
I  saw  that  I  had  brought  the  cloud  into  his  face  again,  and  I 
bided  my  time. 

AVheu  tlie  boating  season  was  over,  the  Hillyars  went  back 
into  the  great  house  at  Stanlake,  and  Reuben  came  home  and 
took  up  his  quarters  once  more  in  the  ghost's-room,  at  the  top  of 
the  house ;  and  then  I  saw  that  the  cloud  was  on  his  face  again, 
and  that  it  grew  darker  day  by  day. 

I  noticed  the  expression  of  poor  Reuben's  face  the  more,  per- 
haps, because  there  was  something  so  pitiable  in  it,  —  a  look  of 
abject,  expectant  terror.  I  felt  humiliated  whenever  I  looked 
at  Reuben.  I  wondered  to  myself  whether,  under  any  circum- 
stances, my  face  could  assume  that  expression.  I  hoped  not. 
His  weak,  handsome  face  got  an  expression  of  eager,  terrified 
listening,  most  painful  to  witness.  Mr.  Faulkner  had  lent  Joe 
"  Tom  and  Jerry,"  and  among  other  pictures  in  it  was  one  of  an 
effeminate,  middle-aged  forger,  just  preparing  for  the  gallows,  by 
George  Cruikshauk ;  and,  when  I  saw  that  most  terrible  picture, 
I  was  obliged  to  confess  that  Reuben  might  have  sat  for  it. 

A  very  few  nights  after  his  return,  just  when  I  had  satisfied 
myself  of  all  the  above-mentioned  facts  about  Reuben,  it  so 
happened  that  Fred,  being  started  for  a  run  in  his  night-shirt, 
the  last  thing  before  going  to  bed,  had  incontinently  run  into  the 
back-kitchen,  climbed  on  to  the  sink  to  see  his  brothers,  Harry 
and  Frank,  pumping  the  kettle  full  for  the  next  morning,  slipped 
upon  the  soap,  come  down  on  one  end,  and  wetted  himself.  My 
mother  was  in  favor  of  airing  a  fresh  night-gown,  but  Emma 
undertook  to  dry  him  in  less  time  ;  so  they  all  went  to  bed,  leaving 
Fred  standing  patiently  at  Emma's  knees,  with  his  back  towards 
the  fire,  in  a  cloud  of  ascending  steam. 

I  had  caught  her  eye  for  one  instant,  and  I  saw  that  it  said : 
"  Stay  with  me."     So  I  came  and  sat  down  beside  her. 

"  Jim,  dear,"  she  said  eagerly,  "  you  have  noticed  Reuben :  I 
have  seen  you  watching  him." 

"  What  is  it,  sweetheart  ? "  I  answered.  "  Can  you  make 
anything  of  it  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  Jim,"  she  said.  "  I  am  fairly  puzzled.  Has  he 
confided  to  you?" 

I  told  her  faithfully  what  had  passed  between  us  the  night  I 
stayed  in  his  room. 

"  He  has  done  noticing  wrong ;  that  is  evident,"  she  said.  "  I 
am  glad  of  that.  I  love  Reuben,  Jim,  dear.  I  would  n't  have 
anything  iiappen  to  Reuben  for  anything  in  the  world.  Let  us 
watch  him  and  save  him,  Jim ;  let  us  watch  him  and  save  him." 

I  promised  that  I  would  do  so,  and  I  did.  I  had  not  long  to 
watch.     In  three  days  from  that  conversation,  the  look  of  fright- 


THE   UILLYARS   AND   TIIK   DURTONS.  99 

ened  expectation  in  Reuben's  face  was  *]^one,  and  in  its  place 
there  was  one  of  surly  deliance.  I  saw  that  what  ho  had  ex- 
pected had  come  to  pass.  But  what  was  that?  I  could  not  con- 
ceive. I  could  only  remember  my  promise  to  him,  to  stick  by 
him,  and  wait  till  he  chose  to  tell  me.  For  there  was  that  in  his 
eyes  which  told  me  that  I  must  wait  his  time ;  that  I  must  do 
anything  but  ask. 

lie  left  off  cominix  in  to  see  us  of  an  evening,  but  woidd  only 
look  in  to  say  ''  Good  night,"  and  then  we  would  hear  him  toil- 
ing up  the  big  stairs  all  alone.  Two  or  three  times  Emma  would 
waylay  him  and  try  to  tem})t  him  to  talk,  but  he  would  turn 
away.  Once  she  told  me  he  laid  his  head  down  on  the  banisters 
and  covered  his  face ;  she  thought  he  was  going  to  speak,  but  he 
raised  it  again  almost  directly,  and  went  away  hurriedly. 

The  house  was  very  nearly  empty  just  now.  The  lodgers,  who 
had,  so  to  speak,  flocked  to  my  father's  standard  at  first,  had  found 
the  house  dull,  and  had  one  by  one  left  us,  to  go  back  into  the 
old  houses,  as  buildings  which  were  not  so  commodious,  but  not 
so  intolerably  melancholy.  The  house  was  not  so  bad  in  sum- 
mer ;  but,  when  the  November  winds  began  to  stalk  about  the 
empty  rooms,  like  ghosts,  and  bang  the  shutters,  in  the  dead  of 
night,  —  or  when  the  house  was  filled  from  top  to  bottom  with 
the  November  fog,  so  that,  when  you  stood  in  the  middle  of  the 
great  room  at  night  with  a  candle,  the  walls  were  invisible,  and 
you  found  yourself,  as  it  were,  out  of  sight  of  land,  —  then  it 
became  a  severe  trial  to  any  one's  nerves  to  live  above  stairs. 
They  dropped  off  one  by  one ;  even  the  Agars  and  the  Ilolmeses, 
our  oldest  friends.  They  plainly  told  us  why ;  we  could  not 
blame  them,  and  we  told  them  so. 

It  used  to  appear  to  me  so  dreadfully  desolate  for  Reuben, 
sleeping  alone  up  there  at  the  very  top  of  the  house,  separated 
from  everything  human  and  lifelike  by  four  melancholy  stories 
of  empty  ghost-haunted  rooms.  I  thought  of  it  in  bed,  and  it 
prevented  my  sleeping.  I  knew  that  some  trouble  was  hanging 
over  his  head,  and  I  thought  that  there  was  something  infinitely 
sad  and  pathetic  in  the  fact  of  that  one  weak,  affectionate  soul 
lying  aloft  there,  so  far  away  from  all  of  us,  brooding  in  solitude. 
Alone  in  the  desolate  darkness,  with  trouble,  —  nay,  perhaps  with 
guilt. 

One  night  I  lay  awake  so  long  thinking  of  this,  that  I  felt  that 
my  judgment  was  getting  slightly  unhinged,  —  that,  in  ^hort,  1 
was  wandering  on  the  subject.  I  awoke  Joe.  He  had  never 
been  taken  into  full  confidence  about  Reuben  and  his  troubles. 
Reuben  was  a  little  afraid  of  him,  and  had  asked  me  not  to  speak 
to  him  on  the  subject,  but  I  had  long  thought  that  we  were  foolish, 
in  not  having  the  advice  of  the  soundest  head  in  the  house ;  so, 


100  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

finding  my  own  judgment  going,  I  awoke  him  and  told  him  every- 
thing. 

"  I  have  been  watching  too,"  said  Joe,  "  and  I  saw  that  he  had 
asked  you  and  Emma  to  say  nothing  to  me.  .Mind  you  never 
let  him  know  j^ou  have.  I  '11  tell  you  what  to  do,  old  man.  What 
time  is  it  ?  " 

It  was  half-past  eleven,  by  my  watch. 

"  Get  up  and  j)ut  on  some  clothes ;  go  up  stairs  and  offer  to 
ileep  with  him." 

"  So  late,"  I  said.     "  Won't  he  be  angry  ?  " 

"  Never  mind  that.  He  ou£:ht  n't  to  be  left  alone  broodinor 
there.  He'll  —  he'll  —  take  to  drink  or  something.  Go  up 
noW)  old  man,  and  see  if  he  will  let  you  sleep  with  him." 

It  was  the  cold  that  made  my  teeth  chatter.  I  feel  quite  sure 
that  it  was  not  the  terror  of  facing  those  endless  broad  stairs  in 
the  middle  of  a  November  night,  but  chatter  they  did.  I  had 
made  my  determination,  however ;  I  was  determined  that  I 
would  go  up  to  poor  Reuben,  and  so  I  partly  dressed  myself. 
Joe  partly  dressed  himself  too,  saying  that  he  would  wait  for 
me. 

Oh,  that  horrible  journey  aloft,  past  the  long  corridors,  and  the 
miserable  bare  empty  rooms,  up  the  vast  empty  staircases,  out  of 
which  things  looked  at  me,  and  walked  away  again  with  audible 
footsteps  !     Bah !  it  makes  me  shudder  to  think  of  it  now. 

But,  at  last,  after  innumerable  terrors,  I  reached  Reuben's 
room-door,  and  knocked.  He  was  snoring  very  loud  indeed,  —  a 
new  trick  of  his.  After  I  had  knocked  twice,  he  suddenly  half- 
opened  the  door,  and  looked  out  before  I  had  heard  him  approach 
it.  It  was  dark,  and  we  could  not  see  one  anotlier.  Reuben 
whispered,  "  Who 's  there  ?"  and  I  answered, 

"  It 's  only  me.  Rube.  I  thought  you  were  so  lonely,  and  I 
came  up  to  sleep  with  you." 

He  said,  "  That 's  like  you.  Don't  come  in,  old  fellow ;  the 
floor 's  damp :  let  me  come  f^  jwn  and  sleep  with  you  instead. 
Wait." 

I  waited  while  Reuben  found  his  trousers,  and  all  the  while  he 
kept  snoring  with  a  vigor  and  regularity  highly  creditable.  At 
last,  after  a  few  moments  indeed,  I  made  the  singularly  shrewd 
guess  that  there  was  some  one  else  sleeping  in  Reuben's  room,  — 
some  one  who  lay  on  his  back,  and  the  passages  of  whose  nose 
were  very  much  contracted. 

Reuben  came  down  stairs  with  me  in  the  dark.  He  said  it 
was  so  kind  of  me  to  think  of  him.  He  confided  to  me  that  he 
had  a  "  cove"  up  stairs,  a  great  pigeon-fancier,  to  whom  he,  Reu- 
ben, owed  money ;  but  which  pigeon-fancier  was  in  hiding,  in 
consequence  of  a  mistake  about  some  turbits,  into  which  it  would 


THE  niLLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  101 

be  tedious  to  go.  I  tJioiKjIit  it  w."s  s<m'»t3''hi*nrt  of  that  liliid,  and 
was  delighted  to  find  tluit  I  wa?  ri'glit.  1  took  occasion  to  give 
Rube  about  threo-halfpennywoi^th  ot  good  rflviic  about  l<nv  com- 
pany, but  he  cut  it  short;  for  he*  ro'Hcd 's^eej-ily  into' oiirtoora, 
where  a  light  was  burning,  and  tumbled  into  my  bed  with  one  of 
his  old  laugh."*,  and  seemed  to  go  to  sleep  instantly. 

I  was  glad  of  this,  for  I  was  in  mortal  fear  lest  he  should  notice 
one  fact :  Joe  was  not  in  the  room,  and  Joe's  bed  was  empty. 
Joe  had  been  following  me  to  see  me  through  my  adventure,  as 
he  always  did ;  but,  if  Reuben  had  seen  that  Joe  had  been  watch- 
ing us,  I  know  he  would  never  have  forgiven  him,  and  so  it  was 
just  as  well  as  it  was.  I  put  the  light  out,  and  in  a  few  minutes 
I  heard  Joe  come  into  the  room  and  get  into  bed.  Although  I 
was  very  tired  after  a  hard  day's  work,  I  determined  to  think  out 
the  problem  of  Reuben's  visitor.  I  had  scarcely  made  this  deter- 
mination, when  it  became  clear  to  me  that  he  was  no  other  than 
Robinson  Crusoe,  who  had  come  to  insist  that  all  Childs's  and 
Chancellor's  omnibus-horses  were  to  be  roughed  in  three  minutes, 
in  consequence  of  the  frost.  I  then  proceeded  down  the  Thames 
in  a  barge,  by  the  Croydon  atmospheric  railway  ;  and  then  I  gave 
it  up  as  a  bad  job,  and  went  on  the  excursion  which  we  all,  I  hope, 
go  at  night.  May  yours  be  a  pleasant  one  to-night,  my  dear 
reader  —  pleasanter  than  any  which  Reuben's  friend,  the  pigeon- 
fancier,  is  at  all  likely  to  make. 


CHAPTER    XXI. 

GERTY  GOES   ON  THE  WAR-TRAIL. 

Below  the  city  of  Palmerston,  which  was  situated  just  at  the 
head  of  the  tideway,  the  river  Street  found  its  way  to  the  sea  in 
long  reaches,  which  were  walled  in,  to  the  very  water's  edge,  by 
what  is  called  in  the  colony  teascrub  —  a  shrub  not  very  unlike 
the  tamarisk,  growing  dense  and  thick,  about  fifteen  feet  high,  on 
the  muddy  bank,  eaten  out  by  the  wash  of  many  steamboats. 
But,  above  the  tideway,  the  river  was  very  different.  If  you 
went  up,  you  had  scarcely  passed  the  wharves  of  the  city  before 
you  found  yourself  in  a  piece  of  real  primeval  forest,  of  nearly 
two  thousand  acres,  left  by  James  Oxton  from  the  very  first; 
which  comprised  a  public  park,  a  botanic  garden,  and  the  pad- 
dock of  the  police-station.  This  domain  sloped  gently  down  to 
the  river  on  either  side,  and  the  river  was  no  sooner  relieved 


102  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

from  thQ  .flat  tidewaj'  t^aii-.ifc  bt^gan  to  run  in  swift  long  shallows 
of  crystal  water,  under  lianging  woodlands,  —  in  short,  to  become 
useless,'ronkaT.Tt-ic/?tm).  extremely  beautiful. 

Passiiig  iij;/Vard  beyoi>d  the- "  Government  Reserve,  as  this 
beautiful  tract  was  called,  you  came  into  tlie  magnificent  grounds 
of  the  Government  House.  The  house  itself,  a  long,  white,  cas- 
tellated building,  hung  aloft  on  the  side  of  a  hill  overhead,  and 
was  backed  by  vast  sheets  of  dark  green  woodland.  From  the 
windows  the  lawn  stooped  suddenly  down,  a  steep  slope  into  the 
river,  here  running  in  a  broad  deep  reach,  hugging  the  rather 
lofty  hills,  on  the  lower  range  of  which  the  house  was  situated. 

Immediately  beyond  the  Government  House,  and  on  the  other 
side  of  the  river,  was  a  house  of  a  very  different  character.  The 
river,  keeping,  as  I  said,  close  to  the  hills,  left  on  the  other  side 
a  great  level  meadow,  which,  in  consequence  of  the  windings  of 
the  stream,  was  a  mere  low  peninsula,  some  five  hundred  acres 
in  extent,  round  which  it  swept  in  a  great  still,  deep,  circle.  At 
the  isthmus  of  the  peninsula,  on  a  rib  of  the  higher  land  behind, 
a  ridge  of  land  ran  down,  and,  forming  the  isthmus  itself,  was  lost 
at  once  in  the  broad  river-flat  below.  There  stood  the  residence 
of  our  friend  the  Hon.  James  Oxton. 

It  was  a  typical  house,  —  the  house  of  a  wealthy  man  who  had 
not  always  been  wealthy,  but  who  had  never  been  vulgar  and 
pretentious.  It  was  a  perfectly  honest  house ;  it  meant  some- 
thing. It  meant  this  :  that  James  Oxton  required  a  bigger  house 
now  that  he  was  worth  a  quarter  of  a  million  than  he  did  when 
he  was  merely  the  cadet  of  an  English  family,  sent  here  to  sink 
or  swim  with  the  only  two  thousand  pounds  he  w-as  ever  likely 
to  see  without  work.  And  yet  that  house  showed  you  at  a  glance 
that  the  owner  did  not  consider  himself  to  have  risen  in  the  social 
world  one  single  step.  He  had  always  been  a  gentleman,  said 
the  house,  and  he  never  can  be  more  or  less.  Ironmongers  from 
Bar  Street  might  build  magnificent  Italian  villas,  as  an  outward 
and  visible  proof  that  they  had  made  their  fortunes,  and  had  be- 
come gentlemen  beyond  denial  or  question.  James  Oxton  still 
lived  comfortably  between  weather-board,  and  under  shingle,  just 
as  in  the  old  times  when  ninety-nine  hundredths  of  the  Colony 
was  a  howling  wilderness ;  he  could  not  rise  or  fall. 

Yet  his  house,  in  its  peculiar  way,  was  a  very  fine  one  indeed. 
Strangers  in  the  Colony  used  to  mistake  it  for  a  great  barracks, 
or  a  great  tan-yard,  or  something  of  that  sort.  Fifteen  years 
before  he  had  erected  a  simple  wooden-house  of  weather-board, 
with  a  high-pitched  shingle  roof.  As  he  had  grown,  so  had  his 
house  grown.  As  he  had  more  visitors,  he  required  more  bed- 
rooms ;  as  he  kept  more  horses,  he  required  more  stables,  conse- 
quently more  shingle  and  weather-boards :  and  so  now  his  house 


THE   IIILLYARS   AND   THE   BUETOXS.  103 

consisted  of  three  large  gnivellcd  quadrangles,  surrounded  by 
one-storied  buildings,  with  higli-pitched  roof's  and  very  deep  ve- 
randas. There  was  hardly  a  window  in  the  whole  building  ; 
nothing  but  glass  doors  opening  to  the  ground,  which  were  open 
for  live  or  six  months  in  the  year. 

An  English  lady  might  have  objected  to  this  arrangement. 
She  might  have  said  that  it  was  not  convenient  to  come  in  and 
find  a  tame  kangaroo,  as  big  as  a  small  donkey,  lying  on  his  side 
on  the  hearth-rug,  pensi\  ely  tickling  his  stomach  with  his  fore- 
paws  ;  or  for  six  or  eiglit  dogs,  large  and  small,  to  come  in  from 
an  expedition,  and,  finding  the  kangaroo  in  possession  of  the  best 
place,  dispose  themselves,  as  comfortably  as  circumstances  would 
allow,  on  ottomans  and  sofas,  until  tliey  rose  up  witli  one  accord 
and  burst  furiously  out,  barking  madly,  on  the  most  trivial  alarm, 
or  even  on  none  at  all.  An  English  lady,  I  say,  might  have  ob- 
jected to  this  sort  of  thing,  but  Aggy  Oxton  never  dreamt  of  it. 
Mrs.  Quickly  objected  to  it,  both  on  the  mother's  account  and  on 
that  of  the  blessed  child,  not  to  mention  her  own ;  but  Mrs.  Oxton 
never  did.  It  was  James's  house,  and  they  were  James's  dogs. 
It  must  be  right. 

I  mentioned  Mrs.  Quickly  just  this  moment.  I  was  forced  to 
do  so.  The  fact  of  the  matter  is,  that  at  this  time  —  that  is  to 
say,  on  the  very  day  on  which  George  Hillyar  had  his  interview 
with  Samuel  Burton  in  his  office  —  the  whole  of  these  vast  prem- 
ises, with  their  inhabitants,  were  under  her  absolute  dominion, 
with  the  exception  of  the  dogs,  who  smelt  her  contemptuously, 
wondering  what  she  wanted  there,  and  the  cockatoo,  who  had  de- 
livered himself  over  as  a  prey  to  seven  screaming  devils,  and, 
having  bit  Mrs.  Quickly,  had  been  removed  to  the  stables,  rebel- 
lious and  defiant. 

For  there  was  a  baby  now.  James  Oxton  had  an  heir  for  his 
honors  and  his  wealth.  The  shrewd  Secretary,  the  hard-bitten 
man  of  the  world,  the  man  who  rather  prided  himself  at  being 
thoroughly  conversant  with  all  the  springs  of  men's  actions,  had 
had  a  new  lesson  these  last  few  days.  There  was  a  sensation 
under  his  broad  white  w^aistcoat  now,  so  very,  very  different  from 
anything  he  had  ever  felt  before,  and  so  strangely  j^leasant.  He 
tried  to  think  wdiat  it  was  most  like.  It  was  nearest  akin  to  anx- 
iety, he  thought.  He  told  his  wife  that  he  felt  it  in  the  same 
place,  but  that  it  was  very  different.  After  all,  he  did  not  know, 
on  second  thouglits,  that  it  ivas  so  very  like  anxiety.  He  tliought, 
perhaps,  that  the  yearning  regret  for  some  old  friend  wlio  had 
died  in  England  without  bidding  him  good-bye,  was  most  like 
this  wonderful  new  sensation  of  child-love. 

But,  whatever  it  was  most  like,  there  it  was.  All  the  inter- 
lacing circles  of  politics,  ambition,  business,  and  family  anxiety. 


104  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

had  joined  their  lines  into  one ;  and  here,  the  centre  of  it  all,  lay 
his  boy,  his  first-born,  heir  to  150,000  acres,  on  his  pale  wife's 
knee. 

He  was  an  anxious  man  that  day.  The  party  which  was  after- 
wards to  rise  and  sweep  him  away  for  a  time,  the  party  of  the 
farmers  and  shopkeepers,  recruited  by  a  few  radical  merchants 
and  some  squatters,  smarting  under  the  provisions  of  James  Ox- 
ton's  Seal  Bill,  and  officered,  as  the  ultra-party  in  a  colony  always 
/s,  by  Irishmen,  —  the  party  represented  in  the  House  by  Mr. 
Phelim  O'Ryan,  and  in  the  press  by  the  Mohawh,  —  bad  shown 
their  strength  for  the  first  time  that  day;  and,  as  a  proof  of  their 
j^atriotism,  had  thrown  out,  on  the  third  reading  (not  having  been 
able  to  whip  in  before),  the  Government  District-Building-Sur- 
veyor's-Bill,  the  object  of  which  was  to  provide  that  the  town 
should  be  built  with  some  pretensions  to  regularity,  and  that 
every  man  should  get  his  fair  money's  worth  out  of  the  brick- 
layer. It  was  thrown  out,  wholesome  and  honest  as  it  was,  as  a 
first  taste  of  the  tender  mercies  and  good  sense  of  a  party  grow- 
ing stronger  day  by  day.  James  Oxton  had  cause  to  be  anxious ; 
he  saw  nothing  before  him  but  factious  opposition,  ever  growing 
stronger  to  every  measure  he  proposed ;  no  business  to  be  com- 
fortably done  until  they,  the  Mohawks,  were  strong  enough  to 
take  office,  which  would  be  a  long  while.  And,  when  they 
were  —  Oh  heavens!  Phelim  O'Ryan,  Brian  O'Donoghue !  It 
would  n't  do  to  think  of. 

And  George  Hillyar?  About  this  proposition  of  his  of  going  to 
England  ?  Tiie  Secretary  was  strongly  of  opinion  that  he  ought 
to  go,  and  to  make  it  up  with  his  father,  and  to  set  things  right, 
and  to  give  Gerty  her  proper  iDOsition  in  the  world  ;  but  George 
would  n't  go.  He  was  obstinate  about  it.  He  said  that  his  father 
hated  him,  and  tliat  it  was  no  use.  "  He  is  a  short-necked  man," 
argued  James  Oxton  to  himself,  "  and  is  past  sixty.  He  may  go 
off  any  moment;  and  there  is  nothing  to  prevent  his  leaving  three- 
quarters  of  his  property  to  this  cub  Erne,  —  the  which  thing  I 
have  a  strong  suspicion  he  has  done  already.  In  which  case 
George  and  Gerty  will  be  left  out  in  the  cold,  as  the  Yankees 
say.  TVhich  will  be  the  dense  and  all :  for  George  has  strong 
capabilities  of  going  to  the  bad  left  in  him  still.  I  wish  George 
would  take  his  pretty  little  wife  over  to  England,  and  make  his 
court  with  the  old  man  while  there  is  time.  But  lie  won't,  con- 
found him ! " 

The  poor  Secretary,  you  see,  had  cause  enough  for  anxiety. 
And  when  he  was  in  one  of  what  his  wife  chose  to  call  his  Saddu- 
cee  humors,  he  would  have  told  you  that  anxiety  was  merely  a 
gnawing  sensation  behind  the  third  button  of  your  waistcoat, 
counting  from  the  bottom.     When,  however,  he  came  into  the 


THE  niLLYARS  AND  TUE  BURTONS.  105 

drawing-room,  and  saw  his  boy  on  Iiis  wife's  lap,  and  Gcrty 
kneeling  before  her,  the  sensation,  though  still  behind  the  same 
button,  was  not  that  of  anxiety,  but  the  other  something  spoken 
of  above. 

The  baby  had  been  doing  prodigies.  He  was  informed  of  it  in 
a  burst  of  females  volubility.  It  had  wimmickcd.  Not  once  or 
twice,  but  three  times  had  that  child  wimmickcd  at  its  aunt  as 
she  knelt  there  on  that  identical  floor  under  vour  feet.  ]\Irs. 
Oxtou  was  confirmed  in  this  statement  by  Gcrty,  and  Gcrty  l)y 
Mrs.  Quickly.  There  was  no  doubt  about  it.  If  the  child  went 
on  at  this  pace,  it  would  be  taking  notice  in  less  than  a  month ! 

This  was  better  than  politics,  —  far  better.  Confound  O'Ryan 
and  all  the  rest  of  them.  He  said,  there  and  then,  that  he  had  a 
good  mind  to  throw  politics  overboard  and  manage  his  property. 
"  Will  you  have  the  goodness  to  tell  me,  Gerty,"  he  said,  "  what 
prevents  my  doing  so  ?  Am  I  not  poorer  in  office  ?  Is  it  not 
unendurable  that  I,  for  merely  patriotically  giving  up  my  time 
and  talents  to  the  colony,  am  to  be  abused  by  an  Irish  adventur- 
er ;  have  my  name  coupled  with  Lord  Castlereagh's  (the  fool 
meant  to  be  offensive,  little  dreaming  that  I  admire  Lord  Castle- 
reagli  profoundly)  ;  and  be  unfavorably  compared  to  Judas  Iscar- 
iot  ?  I  '11  pitch  the  whole  thing  overboard,  and  take  old  George 
into  partnership,  and  let  them  ruin  the  colony  their  own  Avay. 
Why  shouldn't  I?" 

Gerty  did  n't  know.  She  never  knew  anything.  She  thought 
it  would  be  rather  nice.  Mrs.  Oxton  remarked,  quietly,  that  three 
days  before  he  had  been  furiously  abusing  the  upper  classes  in 
America,  as  cowardly  and  unprincipled,  for  their  desertion  of 
politics,  and  their  retirement  into  private  life. 

"  There,  you  are  at  it  now,"  said  the  Secretary.  "  How  often 
I  have  told  you  not  to  remember  my  opinions, in  that  way,  and 
bring  them  up  unexpectedly.  You  are  a  disagreeable  woman, 
and  I  am  very  sorry  I  ever  married  you." 

"  You  should  have  married  Lesbia  Burke,  my  love,"  said  IMrs. 
Oxton.     "  We  always  thought  you  would.     Didn't  we,  Gerty?" 

"  No,  dear,  I  think  not,"  said  simple  Gerty ;  "  I  think  you 
forget.  Don't  you  remember  that  poor  mamma  always  used  to 
insist  so  positively  that  Mary  was  to  marry  Willy  Morton ;  that 
you  were  to  marry  James ;  and  that  I  was  to  marry  either  Dean 
Maberly,  or  Lord  George  Staunton,  unless  some  one  else  turned 
up  ?  I  am  sure  I  am  right,  because  I  remember  how  cross  she 
was  at  your  walking  with  Willy  Morton  at  the  Nicnicabarler 
]nc-nic.  She  said,  if  you  remember,  that  you  were  both  wicked 
and  foolish,  —  wicked,  to  spoil  your  elder  sister's  game,  and  more 
foolish  than  words  could  say  if  you  attempted  to  play  fast  and 
loose  with  James.  I  remember  how  frightened  I  was  at  her. 
5* 


106  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

'  If  you  tliink  James  Oxton  is  to  be  played  the  fool  with,  you 
little  stupid,'  she  said  —  " 

"  The  girl  is  mad,"  said  Mrs.  Oxtou,  blushing  aud  laugliing  at 
the  same  time.  "  She  has  gone  out  of  her  mind.  Her  memory 
is  completely  gone." 

"  Dear  me  !  "  said  Gerty,  looking  foolishly  round  ;  "  I  suppose 
I  oughtn't  to  have  told  all  that  before  James.  I  am  teri-ibly 
silly  sometimes.  But,  Lord  bless  you,  it  won't  make  any  diiFer- 
ence  to  him." 

Not  much,  judging  from  the  radiant  smile  on  his  face.  He 
was  intensely  delighted.  He  snapped  his  fingers  in  his  wife's 
face.  "  So  Willy  Morton  was  the  other  string  to  her  bow,  hey  ? 
Oh  Lord  I "  he  said,  and  then  burst  out  into  a  shout  of  merry 
laughter.  Mrs.  Oxton  would  not  be  put  down.  She  said  that  it 
was  every  word  of  it  true,  and  that,  idiot  as  Willy  Morton  w^as, 
he  would  never  have  snapped  his  fingers  in  his  wife's  face. 
Gerty  could  n't  understand  the  fun.  She  thought  they  were  in 
earnest,  and  that  she  was  the  cause  of  it  all.  Mrs.  Oxton  saw 
this,  and  jDointed  it  out  to  the  Secretary.  He  would  have 
laughed  at  her  anxiety,  but  he  saw  she  was  really  distressed ; 
so  he  told  her  in  his  kind,  quiet  way,  that  there  was  such  love 
and  confidence  between  him  and  her  sister  as  even  the  last  day 
of  all,  when  the  secrets  of  all  hearts  should  be  known,  could  not 
disturb  for  one  instant. 

She  was,  possibly,  a  little  frightened  by  the  solemnity  with 
which  he  said  this,  for  she  stood  a  little  without  answering ;  and 
Mr.  Oxton  and  his  wife,  comparing  notes  that  evening,  agreed 
that  her  beauty  grew  more  wonderful  day  by  day. 

For  a  moment,  she  stood,  with  every  curve  in  her  body  seem- 
ing to  droop  the  one  below  the  other,  and  her  face  vacant  and 
puzzled ;  but  suddenly,  with  hardly  any  outward  motion,  the 
curves  seemed  to  shift  upwards,  her  figure  grew  slightly  more 
rigid,  her  head  was  turned  slightly  aside,  her  lips  parted,  and  her 
face  flushed  and  became  animated. 

"  I  hear  him,"  she  said ;  "  I  hear  his  horse's  feet  brushing 
through  the  fern.  He  is  coming,  James  and  Aggy.  1  know 
what  a  pity  it  is  I  am  so  silly  —  " 

"  My  darling,  —  "  broke  out  Blr.  Oxton. 

"  I  know  what  I  mean,  sister  dear.  He  should  have  had  a 
cleverer  wife  than  me.  Do  you  tliink  I  am  so  silly  as  not  to 
see  that?     Here  he  is." 

She  ran  out  to  meet  him.  "  By  George,  Aggy,"  said  the 
Secretary,  kissing  his  wife,  "if  that  fellow  does  turn  Turk  to  her  —  " 

He  had  no  time  to  say  more,  for  George  and  Gerty  were  in 
the  room,  and  the  Secretary  saw  that  George's  face  was  hag- 
gard and  anxious,  and  began  to  grow  anxious  too. 


THE  HILLYARS  AKD  THE  BURTONS.  107 

*'  I  am  ghul  wc  arc  all  here  together  alone,"  said  George.  "  I 
want  an  important  family  talk.  Mrs.  Quickly  would  you  mind 
going  ?  " 

JNIrs.  Quickly  had,  unnoticed,  heard  all  that  had  passed  before, 
and  seemed  inclined  to  hear  more.  She  winced,  and  ambled, 
and  bridled,  and  said  something  about  the  blessed  child,  where- 
upon Mrs.  Oxton,  like  a  shrewd  body,  gave  her  the  bal>y  to  take 
away  with  her,  reflecting  that  if  she  tried  to  listen  at  the  key- 
hole, the  baby  would  probably  make  them  aware  of  the  fact. 

"  I  look  })ale  and  anxious,  I  know,"  said  George.  "  I  am  go- 
ing to  tell  you  why.  Has  Gerty  told  you  what  she  told  me 
last  week  ! " 

Yes,  she  had. 

"  I  have  been  thinking  over  the  matter  all  day,  all  day,"  said 
Georcje,  wearilv,  "  and  I  have  come  to  the  conclusion  that  that 
circumstance  makes  an  immense  difference.  Don't  you  see 
how,  Oxton  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  do,"  said  the  Secretary. 

George  looked  wearily  and  composedly  at  him,  and  said,  "  I 
mean  this,  my  dear  Oxton  ;  I  steadily  refused  to  pay  court  to  my 
father  before,  partly  because  I  thought  it  useless,  and  partly  be- 
cause my  pride  forbade  me.  This  news  of  Gerty's  alters  every- 
thing. For  the  sake  of  my  child,  I  must  eat  my  pride,  and  try 
to  resume  my  place  as  the  head  of  the  house.  Therefore,  I 
think  I  will  accede  to  your  proposal,  and  go  to  England." 

"  My  good  George,"  said  Mrs.  Oxton,  takincjliim  by  both  hands, 
"  my  wise,  kind  George,  we  are  so  sure  it  will  be  for  the  best  ?  " 

"  My  boy,"  said  the  Secretary,  "  you  are  right.  I  cannot  tell 
you  how  delighted  I  am  at  your  decision.  I  wish  I  was  going. 
Oh  heavens  !  if  I  could  only  go.  And  I  will  go,  and  act- 
ually see  old  Leecroft,  and  Gerty  shall  take  a  kiss  to  my 
mother.  Hey,  Gerty?  She  would  know  you  if  she  met  you  in 
the  street,  from  my  description.  Shall  you  be  in  time  to  get  off 
by  the  Windsor  ?  " 

"  Oh  Lord,  no,"  said  George,  losing  color  for  an  instant ;  "  we 
could  n't  possibly  go  by  that  ship.  No ;  we  could  not  be  ready 
by  then." 

"  I  suppose  you  couldn't,"  said  the  Secretary.  "  I  -was  think- 
ing for  a  moment,  George,  that  you  were  as  impatient  as  I 
should  be." 

"  Hardly  that,"  said  George.  "  ]\Iy  errand  home  is  a  different 
sort  of  one  from  yours." 

So  George  got  leave  of  absence,  and  went  home  ;  partly  to 
see  whether  or  no  he  could,  now  a  family  was  in  prospect,  get 
on  some  better  terms  with  his  father,  and  partly  because,  since 
he  had  the  interview  with  Samuel  Burton,  everything  seemed  to 


108  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

have  grown  duller  and  blanker  to  him.  His  first  idea  was  to 
put  sixteen  thousand  miles  of  salt  water  between  him  and  this 
man,  and  his  purpose  grew  stronger  every  time  he  remembered 
the  dissraceful  tie  that  bound  them  to2:ether. 

So  they  went.  As  the  ship  began  to  move  through  the  green 
water  of  the  bay,  Gerty  stood  weeping  on  the  quarter-deck,  cling- 
ing to  George's  arm.  The  shore  began  to  fade  rapidly  ;  the  happy, 
happy  shore,  on  which  she  had  spent  her  sunny,  silly  life.  The 
last  thing  she  saw  through  her  tears  was  the  Secretary,  standing 
at  the  end  of  the  pier,  waving  his  hat,  and  Aggy  beside  him. 
When  she  looked  up  again,  some  time  after,  the  old  familiar 
shore  was  but  a  dim  blue  cloud,  and,  with  a  sudden  chill  of 
terror,  she  found  herself  separated  from  all  who  knew  her  and 
loved  her,  save  one,  —  alone,  on  the  vast,  heaving,  pitiless  ocean, 
with  George  Hillyar. 

For  one  instant,  she  forgot  herself.  She  clutched  his  arm, 
and  cried  out,  "  George,  George !  let  us  go  back.  I  am  fright- 
ened, George.  I  want  to  go  back  to  Aggy  and  James.  Take 
me  back  to  James !     Oh,  for  God's  sake,  take  me  back  !  " 

"  It  is  too  late  now,  Gerty,"  said  George,  coldly,  "  You  and 
I  are  launched  in  the  world  together  alone,  to  sink  or  swim. 
The  evening  gets  chill.     Go  to  your  cabin." 

The  Secretary  stamped  his  foot  on  the  pier,  and  said,  "  God 
deal  with  him  as  he  deals  with  her ! "  But  his  wife  caught  his 
hands  in  hers,  and  said,  "  James,  James  !  don't  say  that.  Who 
are  we  that  we  should  make  imprecations  ?  Say,  God  help 
them  both." 


CHAPTER    XXII. 

JAMES  BURTON'S  STORY:  VERY  LOW  COMPANY. 

Reuben's  friend,  the  pigeon-fancier,  never  showed  in  public. 
I  asked  Rube,  after  a  day  or  two,  whether  he  was  there  still,  and 
Rube  answered  that  he  was  there  still,  off  and  on.  I  was  very 
sorry  to  hear  it,  though  I  could  hardly  have  told  any  one  why. 

Reuben  never  came  in  of  a  night  now ;  at  least  never  came  to 
sit  with  us.  Sometimes  he  would  come  in  for  a  few  minutes, 
with  his  pockets  always  full  of  bulhs'-eyes  and  rock  and  such 
things,  and  would  give  them  to  the  children,  looking  steadily  at 
Emma  all  the  while,  and  then  go  away  again.  He  would  not  let 
me  come  up  to  his  room.     He  seemed  not  at  all  anxious  to  con- 


THE  IIILLYARS  AND  TUE  BURTONS.  109 

ceal  the  fact,  that  there  was  some  one  wlio  came  there  who  was, 
to  put  it  elegantly,  an  ineligible  acquaintance.  My  father  became 
acquainted  with  the  fact,  and  was  seriously  angry  about  it.  But 
Keuben  had  correctly  calculated  on  my  father's  good  nature  and 
disincHnation  to  act.  Reuben  knew  that  my  father  would  only 
growl  ;  he  knew  he  would  never  turn  him  out. 

Very  early  in  my  story  I  hinted  that  Alsatia  was  just  round 
the  corner  from  Brown's  Row.  Such  was  tlie  fact.  In  Danvers 
Street  and  Lawrence  Street,  west  and  east  of  us,  might  be  found 
some  very  queer  people  indeed  ;  and,  as  I  have  an  objection  to 
give  their  names,  I  shall  give  them  fictitious  ones.  I  have  noth- 
ing w^hatcver  to  say  against  Mrs.  Quickly,  or  of  the  reasons  which 
led  to  her  emigration.  She  hardly  comes  into  question  just  now, 
for  she  emicjrated  to  Cooksland  not  lon<]j  after  Fred  was  born.  I 
repeat  that  I  personally  have  nothing  to  say  against  Mrs.  Quick- 
ly ;  she  was  always  singularly  civil  to  me.  That  she  was  a  fool- 
ish and  weak  woman,  I  always  thought,  but  I  was  surprised  at  the 
singular  repugnance   wdiich   Emma  showed  towards  her.     And 

Mrs.  C m  again.     What  could  have  made  her  fly  out  at  the 

poor  woman  in  that  way,  and  fairly  hunt  her  out  of  Sidney  ? 
And  will  you  tell  me  why,  in  the  end,  not  only  Emma  and  Mrs. 
C m,  but  also  my  mother,  had  far  more  tenderness  and  com- 
passion for  that  terrible  unsexed  termagant  Mrs.  Bardol})h  {nee 
Tearsheet),  than  for  the  gentle,  civil,  soft-spoken  Mrs.  Quickly  ? 
I  asked  my  wife  why  it  was  the  other  day,  and  she  told  me  that 
nothing  was  more  difficult  to  answer  than  a  thoroughly  stupid 
question. 

At  the  time  of  which  I  am  speaking  now,  Mrs.  Quickly  had 
gone  to  Australia,  and  the  house  she  had  kept  in  Lawrence  Street 
was  kept  by  Mrs  Bardolph  and  Miss  Ophelia  Flanagan.  Miss 
Flanagan  was  a  tall  raw-boned  Irish  woman,  married  to  a  Mr. 
Malone.  Mrs.  Bardolph  was  a  great  red-faced  coarse  Kentish 
woman,  with  an  upper  lip  longer  than  her  nose,  and  a  chin  as  big 
as  both,  as  strong  as  a  man,  and  as  fierce  as  a  tiger. 

This  winter  she  had  returned  from  a  short  incarceration.  There 
had  been  a  fatal  accMent  in  her  establishment.  Nobody  —  neither 
the  dozen  or  fourteen  gentlewomen,  nor  Nym,  nor  Bardolph,  nor 
Pistol  —  had  any  thing  to  do  with  it.  The  man  had  fallen  down 
stairs  and  broken  his  neck  accidentally,  but  neither  the  Middle- 
sex Ma";istrates  nor  the  Assistant-Judt»e  could  conceal  from  them- 
selves  the  fact,  that  Mrs.  Bardolph  kept  a  disorderly  house,  and 
so  she  had  to  go  to  IloUoway.  She  had  now  returned,  louder, 
redder,  and  angrier  than  before. 

Not  many  days  after  the  night  on  which  I  had  gone  up  into 
Reuben's  room,  I  had  some  business  in  Cheyne  Row,  and  when 
it  was  done  I  came  whistling  and  sauntering  homewai*d;3.     As  I 


110  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

came  into  Lawrence  Street,  I  was  thinking  how  pleasant  and 
fresh  the  air  came  up  from  the  river,  when  I  was  attracted  by  the 
sound  of  people  talking  loudly  before  me,  and,  looking  up,  I  saw 
at  the  corner  of  the  passage  which  leads  by  the  Dissenting  chapel 
into  Church  Street,  this  group  — 

Miss  Flanagan  and  Mrs.  Bardolph,  leaning  against  the  railings 
with  their  arms  folded ;  Mr.  Nym,  Mr.  Bardolph,  and  Mr.  Pistol 
(I  know  who  I  mean  well  enough) ;  a  dozen  or  fourteen  gentle- 
women, Bill  Sykes,  Mrs.  Gamp,  Moll  Flanders,  and  my  cousin 
Reuben.  There  was  a  man  also,  who  leant  against  a  post  with 
his  back  towards  me,  whose  face  I  could  not  see. 

As  I  came  near  them,  they  stopped  talking,  every  one  of  them, 
and  looked  at  me.  To  any  lad  of  nearly  eighteen,  not  born  in 
London  or  one  of  the  chief  towns  in  Australia,  this  would  have 
been  confusing ;  to  me  it  was  a  matter  of  profound  indifference. 
I  was  passing  them  with  a  calm  stare,  by  no  means  expressive  of 
curiosity,  when  Mrs.  Bardolph  spoke : 

"  Hallo,  young  Bellus-and-tongs  !     What 's  up  ?  " 

I  replied  to  her,  not  in  many  words.  There  was  a  roar  of 
laughter  from  the  whole  gang ;  she  looked  a  little  angry  for  a 
moment,  but  laughed  good-naturedly  directly  afterwards.  Then 
I  was  sorry  for  what  I  had  said.  But  you  had  to  keep  your 
tongue  handy  in  those  times,  I  assure  you. 

"  Never  you  mind  the  stirabout,  you  monkey,"  she  said  ;  "  my 
constitution  wanted  reducing ;  I  was  making  a  deal  too  much 
flesh.  Take  your  cousin  home  and  mind  him,  you  cheeky  gonoff ; 
don't  you  see  that  the  devil  has  come  for  him  ?  " 

There  was  another  laugh  at  this,  and  I  turned  and  looked  at 
the  gentleman  who  was  leaning  against  the  corner-post,  and  who 
was  laughing  as  loud  as  any  one.  I  was  not  impressed  in  this 
gentleman's  favor ;  but  I  was  strongly  impressed  with  the  idea 
that  this  was  the  gentleman  who  had  snored  so  loud  one  night 
he  had  slept  in  Reuben's  room.  But  I  only  laughed  too.  I  said 
to  Mrs.  Bardolph,  that  Rube  knew  his  home  and  his  friends  a 
good  deal  better  than  she  could  tell  him,  and  so  I  went  on  my 
way,  and,  as  I  went,  heard  Miss  Flanagan  remark  that  I  was  a 
tonguey  young  divole,  but  had  something  the  look  of  my  sisther 
about  the  eyee. 

I  was  glad  that  Erne  came  to  see  me  that  night,  for  I  was  ter- 
ribly vexed  and  ill  at  ease  at. finding  Reuben  in  such  company: 
in  company  so  utterly  depraved  that  I  have  chosen,  as  you  see, 
to  designate  them  by  Shakespearian  names.  It  was  not  because 
I  wished  to  confide  in  him  that  I  was  glad  to  see  him.  I  had  no 
intention  of  doing  that.  If  I  had,  in  the  first  place  I  should  have 
been  betraying  Reuben  ;  in  the  second,  I  should  have  been  asham- 
ed J  and  in  the  third,  I  should  have  been  telling  the  difficulty  to 


THE  HILLY ARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  Ill 

a  person  as  little  likely  to  iiiulcrstand  it  and  assist  one  out  of  it 
as  any  one  I  know.  Erne's  childish  simplicity  in  all  worldly  mat- 
ters was  a  strange  thing  to  see. 

iS^o.  It  was  lor  this  reason  I  was  glad  to  see  Erne.  I  was 
vexed,  and  tiie  fact  of  his  sitting  beside  me  soothed  me  and  made 
me  forget  my  vexation.  Why  ?  you  ask.  Well,  there  you  have 
me.  I  have  not  the  very  least  idea  in  the  world  why.  I  only 
know  that  when  Erne  was  sitting  with  me  I  had  a  feeling  of  con- 
tentment which  I  never  had  at  other  times.  We  never  spoke 
much  to  one  another ;  hardly  ever,  unless  we  were  alone,  and 
then  only  a  few  words  ;  nothing  in  themselves,  but  showing  that 
we  understood  one  another  thoroughly.  Erne's  powers  of  con- 
versation were  entirely  reserved  for  Emma  and  Joe.  But  tliey 
told  me  that,  if  I  was  out  when  he  came,  he  was  quite  distraught 
and  absent ;  that  he  would  never  talk  his  best  unless  I  was  pre- 
sent,—  though  he  would,  perhaps,  only  notice  my  coming  by  tak- 
ing my  hand  and  saying,  "  How  do,  old  fellow  ?  "  A  curious  fact 
these  boy-friendships !  A  wise  schoolmaster  told  me  the  other 
day  that  he  should  not  know  what  to  do  without  them,  and  that 
he  had  to  utilize  them.  They  are,  I  think,  all  very  well  until 
Ferdinand  meets  Miranda.  After  that,  they  must  take  their 
chance.  At  this  time,  it  was  only  child  Erne  who  was  in  love 
with  child  Emma.  As  yet,  I  was  the  centre  round  which  Erne's 
world  revolved.     I  had  not  gone  to  the  wall  as  yet. 

"  Hallo  !  "  said  Erne,  when  he  burst  in.  "  I  say,  is  Jim  here  ? 
I  say,  old  fellow,  I  want  to  talk  to  you  most  particularly.  Where  's 
Emma,  old  fellow  ?  Fetch  Emma  for  me  ;  I  want  to  have  a  talk 
about  something  very  particular  iiideecl.  A  regular  council  of 
war,  Joe.  You  Hammersmith,  you  needn't  say  anything;  you 
listen,  and  reserve  your  opinion.     Do  you  hear  ?  " 

I  remember  that  he  shook  hands  with  me,  and  I  remember 
smiling  to  see  his  white  delicate  fingers  clasped  in  my  own  black 
hand.  Then  Emma  came  sweeping  in,  and  her  broad  noble  face 
shaped  itself  into  one  great  smile  to  welcome  him  ;  and  he  asked 
her  to  give  him  a  kiss,  and  she  gave  him  one,  and  you  must  make 
the  best  of  it  you  can,  or  the  worst  that  you  dare.  And  then  she 
passed  on  to  her  place  by  the  fire  with  Frank  and  Harry,  and 
Fred  hanging  to  her  skirts,  and  sat  down  to  listen. 

The  court  was  opened  by  Erne.  He  said,  "  My  elder  brother 
is  come  home."  There  were  expressions  of  surprise  from  Joe 
and  Emma. 

"  Yes,"  said  Erne.  "  He  is  come  home.  Emma,  I  want  to 
ask  you  this :  If  you  had  a  brother  you  had  never  seen,  do  you 
tliink  you  could  love  him  ?  " 

Emma  said,  "  Yes.  That  she  should  certainly  love  him, 
merely  from  being  her  brother," 


112  THE  HILLY AKS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  But  suppose,"  said  Erne,  "  that  you  had  never  heard  any- 
thing but  evil  about  him.     Should  you  love  him  then  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Emma  ;  "  I  would  n't  believe  the  evil.  And  so  I 
should  be  able  to  love  him." 

"  But,"  said  Erne,  "  that  is  silly  nonsense.  Suppose  that  you 
were  forced  to  believe  everj^thing  bad  against  him  ?  " 

"  I  would  n't  without  proof,"  said  resolute  Emma. 

"  But  suppose  you  had  proof,  you  very  obstinate  and  wrong- 
headed  girl.  Supposing  the  proofs  of  his  ill  behavior  were  per- 
fectly conclusive.     Suppose  that." 

"  Supposing  that,"  said  the  undaunted  Emma,  "  is  supposing  a 
good  deal.  Suppose  that  I  was  to  suppose,  that  you  had  taken 
the  whole  character  of  your  brother  from  second-hand,  and  had 
never  taken  the  trouble  or  had  the  opportunity  to  find  out  the 
truth.     Suppose  that." 

"  Well,"  said  Erne,  after  a  pause,  "  that  is  the  case,  after  all. 
But  you  need  n't  be  so  aggravating  and  determined ;  I  only 
asked  your  opinion.     I  wanted  you  to  — " 

"  To  hound  you  on  till  you  formed  the  faction  against  your 
brother,  eh  ?  "  said  Emma.  "  Now,  you  may  be  offended  or  not ; 
you  may  get  up  and  leave  this  room  to-night ;  but  you  shall  hear 
the  truth.  Joe  and  I  have  talked  over  this  ever  since  you  told 
us  that  your  brother  was  expected  a  fortnight  ago,  and  I  am  ex- 
pressing Joe's  oj)inion  and  my  own.  Every  prejudice  you  take 
towards  that  man  lowers  you  in  the  estimation  of  those  who  love 
you  best.  You  sit  there,  I  see,  like  a  true  gentleman,  without 
anger  or  malice  ;  you  encourage  me  to  go  on  to  the  end  and  risk 
the  loss  of  your  acquaintance  by  doing  so  (it  is  Joe  who  is  speak- 
ing, not  I)  ;  but  I  tell  you  boldly,  that  your  duty,  as  a  gentle- 
man, is  to  labor  night  and  day  to  bring  your  brother  once  more 
into  your  father's  favor.  It  will  ruin  you,  in  a  pecuniary  point 
of  view,  to  do  so ;  but,  if  you  wish  to  be  a  man  of  honor  and  a 
gentleman,  if  you  wish  to  be  with  us  all  the  same  Erne  Hillyar 
that  we  have  learnt  to  love  so  dearly,  you  must  do  so." 

"  I  have  two  things  more  to  say,"  continued  Emma,  whose 
color,  heightened  during  her  speech,  was  now  fading  again. 
"  Jim,  your  dear  Hammersmith,  knew  nothing  whatever  of  this 
speech  I  have  made  you.  It  was  composed  by  Joe,  and  I  agree 
with  every  word,  every  letter  of  it ;  and  that  is  all  I  have  to 
say,  Erne  Hillyar." 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  113 


CHAPTER    XXIII. 

JAMES    BURTON'S    STORY:    THE  HILLYARS  AND    THE    BURTONS 
AMONG  THE   TOMBS. 

My  brother  Joe  had  at  one  time  made  a  distinct  request  to 
my  father  that  he  should  learn  the  trade,  in  which  he  was  backed 
up  by  my  mother,  for  the  rather  inscrutable  reason  that  any 
trade  was  better  than  coopering.  It  was  a  perfectly  undeniable 
proposition,  but  was  somewhat  uncalled  for,  because  the  question 
with  Joe  was  not  between  smith-work  and  cooper-work,  but  be- 
tween hand-work  and  head-work,  —  whether  he  should  become 
an  artisan  or  a  scholar. 

It  was  that  busybody  Emma  that  persuaded  him  in  the  end, 
of  course,  by  quietly  depreciating  me,  and  by  flattering  Joe's  in- 
tellect. During  the  time  that  the  matter  was  in  debate,  she 
assumed  a  pensive  air,  and  used  to  heave  little  sighs  when  she 
looked  at  Joe,  and  was  so  misguided  once  as  to  dust  a  chair 
I  had  been  sitting  in.  After  this  I  was  taken  with  a  sudden 
affection  for  her,  and,  having  made  my  face  seven  times  dirtier 
than  usual,  had  embraced  her  tenderly.  I  also  put  a  cinder  in 
her  tea,  which  brought  matters  to  a  crisis,  for  we  both  burst  out 
laughing ;  and  I  called  her  a  stuck-up  humbug,  which  thing  she 
acknowledged  with  graceful  humility,  and  before  I  had  time  to 
turn  round  had  made  me  promise  to  add  my  persuasion  to  hers, 
and  persuade  Joe  to  become  a  scholar. 

I  did  so,  and  turned  the  scale.  Joe  continued  at  school,  first 
as  pupil,  and  secondly  as  an  underteacher,  until  he  was  sixteen,  at 
which  time  it  became  apparent  to  Mr.  Faulkner  that  Joe  was 
giving  promise  of  becoming  a  very  first-rate  man  indeed. 

He  expressed  this  opinion  to  Mr.  Compton,  who  called  upon 
him  one  day  for  the  purpose  of  asking  him  his  opinion  of  Joe. 
A  very  few  days  after  he  came  to  my  father,  and  said  that  wSir 
George  Hillyar  begged  to  take  the  liberty  of  advising  that  Mr. 
Joseph  Burton  should  remain  where  he  was  a  short  time  longer  ; 
after  which  Sir  George  "  would  have  great  pleasure  in  under- 
taking to  provide  employment  for  those  extraordinary  talents 
which  he  appeared  to  be  developing." 

''  Well,"  said  Joe,  with  a  radiant  face ;  "  if  this  ain't  —  I  mean 
is  not  —  the  most  ex-tra-ai^^c?inary,  I  ever." 

I  said  that  I  never  didn't,  neither. 

My  father  whistled,  and  looked  seriously  and  inquiringly  at 
IMr.  Compton. 

H 


114  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  I  don't  know  why,"  answered  Mr.  Compton,  just  as  if  my 

father  had  spoken.     "  Erne's ,  I  mean,"  continued  he,  with 

a  stammer,  at  which  Miss  Emma  got  as  red  as  fire,  "  I  mean 
Erne's  friend's  brother  there,  Reuben's  cousin  —  Law  bless  you ! 
fifty  ways  of  accounting  for  it.  But,  as  for  knowing  anything,  I 
don't,  and,  wliat  is  more,  old  Morton  tlie  keeper  don't  know,  and, 
when  he  don't  know,  why,  you  know,  who  is  to  ?  " 

"  Certainly,  sir,"  said  my  fatlier.  "  So  old  Morton  he  don't 
know  nothink,  don't  he.     Well !     Well !  " 

However,  this  was  very  good  news  indeed.  We  should  have 
Joe  with  us  for  some  time  longer,  and  the  expectation  of  the 
first  loss  to  the  family  circle  was  lying  somewhat  heavy  on  our 
hearts.  And  then,  when  he  did  leave  us,  it  would  be  with  such 
splendid  prospects.  My  mother  said  it  would  not  in  the  least 
surprise  her  to  see  Joe  in  a  draper's  shop  of  his  own,  — 
which  idea  was  scornfully  scouted  by  the  rest  of  us,  who  had 
already  made  him  Prime  Minister.  In  the  mean  time  I  was 
very  anxious  to  see  Erne  and  thank  him,  and  to  know  why 
Miss  Emma  should  have  blushed  in  that  way. 

Erne  evidently  wanted  to  see  me  for  some  purpose  also,  for  he 
wrote  to  me  to  ask  me  to  meet  him  at  the  old  place  the  next 
Sunday  afternoon. 

The  "  old  place  "  was  a  bench  which  stood  in  front  of  Sir 
Thomas  More's  monument,  close  to  the  altar-rails  of  the  old 
church.  We  promised  that  we  would  all  come  and  meet  him 
there. 

It  is  so  long  ago  since  we  began  to  go  to  the  old  church,  on 
Sunday  afternoon  in  winter,  and  in  the  evening  in  summer,  that 
I  cannot  attempt  to  fix  the  date.  It  had  grown  to  be  a  habit 
when  I  was  very,  very  young,  for  I  remember  that  church  with 
me  used  at  one  time  to  mean  the  old  church,  and  that  I  used  to 
consider  the  attendance  on  the  new  St.  Luke's,  in  Robert 
Street,  more  as  a  dissipation,  than  an  act  of  devotion. 

My  mother  tells  me  that  she  used  first  to  take  me  there  about 
so  and  so,  —  meaning  a  period  when  I  was  only  about  fourteen 
months  old.  My  mother  is  a  little  too  particular  in  her  dates, 
and  her  chronology  is  mainly  based  on  a  system  of  rapidly  re- 
curring eras :  a  system  which,  I  notice,  is  apt  to  spread  confu- 
sion and  dismay  among  the  ladies  of  the  highly-genteel  rank  to 
which  we  have  elevated  ourselves.  However,  to  leave  mere 
fractions  of  time,  of  no  real  importance,  to  take  care  of  them- 
selves, she  must  have  taken  me  to  the  old  church  almost  as  soon 
as  my  retina  began  to  carry  images  to  my  brain,  for  I  can  re- 
member Lord  and  Lady  Dacre,  with  their  dogs  at  their  feet, 
before  I  can  remember  being  told  by  Mrs.  Quickly,  that  the 
doctor  had  been  for  a  walk  round  the   parsley-bed,  and   had 


THE  niLLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  115 

brouglit  mc  a  little  brother  from  among  the  gooseberry-bushes  : 
which  was  hor  metaphorical  way  of  announcing  the  fact  of  my 
brother  Joe's  birth. 

At  first,  I  remember,  I  used  to  think  that  all  the  statues  were 
of  the  nature  of  Guy  Fawke?;,  and  were  set  up  there  to  atone 
for  sins  committed  in  the  tlesh.  From  this  heretical  and  pagan 
frame  of  mind  I  was  rescued  by  learning  to  read;  and  then  I 
found  that  these  images  and  monuments  were  not  set  up  for 
warning,  but  for  example.  I  began  to  discover  that  these  people 
who  had  died,  and  had  their  monuments  set  up  here,  were,  by 
very  long  odds,  the  best  people  who  ever  lived.  I  was,  for  a 
time,  puzzled  about  those  wlio  had  their  epitaphs  written  in 
Latin,  I  confess.  Starting  on  the  basis,  that  every  word  in 
every  epitaph  was  strictly  true,  I  soon  argued  myself  into  the 
conclusion  that  the  Latin  epitaphs'  were  jtvritten  in  that  lan- 
guage for  the  sake  of  sparing  the  feelings  of  the  survivors ;  and 
that  they  were  the  epitaphs  of  people  about  whom  there  was 
something  queer,  or,  at  all  events,  something  better  reserved  for 
the  decision  of  the  scholastic  few  who  understood  Latin.  At  a 
verj"-  early  age  I  became  possessed  with  the  idea  that  when  Mrs. 
Quickly  died  it  would  become  necessary,  for  the  sake  of  public 
morality,  to  write  her  epitaph  in  Latin.  I  can't  tell  you  how 
I  came  to  think  so.  I  never  for  a  moment  doubted  that  such  an 
excellent  and  amiable  woman  would  have  a  very  large  tomb 
erected  to  her  by  a  grateful  country ;  but  I  never  for  a  moment 
doubted  that  it  would  become  necessary  to  have  a  Latin  inscrip- 
tion on  it. 

But  conceive  how  I  was  astonished  by  finding,  when  I  was  a 
great  fellow,  that  the  Latin  inscriptions  were  quite  as  compli- 
mentary as  the  English.  Joe  translated  a  lot  of  them  for  me. 
It  was  quite  evident  that  such  people  as  the  Chelsea  people 
never  lived.  So  far  from  Latin  being  used  with  a  view  of  hid- 
ing any  little  faux  pas  of  the  eminent  deceased  from  the  knowl- 
edge of  the  ten-pound  householders,  it  appeared  that  the  older 
language  had  been  used  merely  because  the  miserable  bastard 
patois,  which  Shakespeare  was  forced  to  use,  but  which  John- 
son very  properly  rejected  witli  decision,  was  utterly  unfit  to  ex- 
press the  various  virtues  of  these  wonderful  Chelsea  peoj^le,  of 
whom,  with  few  exceptions,  no  one  ever  heard.  It  used  to  strike 
me,  however,  that,  among  the  known  or  the  unknown,  Sir 
Thomas  More  was  the  most  obstinately  determined  that  posterity 
should  hear  his  own  account  of  himself. 

My  opinion  always  was,  that  the  monuments  which  were  in 
the  best  state  were  those  of  the  Ilillyars  and  of  the  Duchess  of 
Northumberland.  There  are  no  inscriptions  on  these,  with  the 
exception  of  the  family  names.      The  members  of  the  family 


116  THE  HILLY ARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

are  merely  represented  kneeling  one  behind  the  other  with  their 
names  —  in  the  one  case  above  their  heads,  in  the  other,  on  a 
brass  beneath.  The  Dacres,  with  their  dogs  at  their  feet,  are 
grand ;  but,  on  the  whole,  give  me  the  Flillyars,  kneeling  humbly, 
with  nothing  to  say  for  themselves.  Let  the  Dacres  carry  their 
pride  and  their  dogs  to  the  grave  with  them  if  they  see  fit ;  let 
them  take  their  braches,  and  lie  down  to  wait  for  judgment. 
Honest  John  Hillyar  will  have  no  dogs,  having  troubles  enough 
beside.  He  and  his  family  prefer  to  kneel,  with  folded  hands, 
until  the  last  trump  sound  from  the  East,  or  until  Chelsea  Church 
crumble  into  dust. 

I  always  loved  that  monument  better  than  any  in  Chelsea  Old 
Church.  'T  is  a  good  example  of  a  mural  monument  of  that 
time,  they  say,  but  they  have  never  seen  it  on  a  wild  autumn 
afternoon,  when  the.  sun  streams  in  on  it  from  the  southwest, 
lights  it  up  for  an  instant,  and  then  sends  one  long  ray  quivering 
up  the  wall  to  the  roof,  and  dies.  What  do  they  know  about  the 
monument  at  such  a  time  as  that  ?  Still  less  do  they  know  of 
the  fancies  that  a  shock-headed,  stupid  blacksmith's  boy  —  two 
of  whose  brothers  were  poets,  and  whose  rant  he  used  to  hear  — 
used  to  build  up  in  his  dull  brain  about  it,  as  he  sat  year  after 
year  before  it,  until  the  kneeling  figures  became  friends  to  him. 

For  I  made  friends  of  them  in  a  way.  They  were  friends  of 
another  world.  I  found  out  enough  to  know  that  they  were  the 
images  of  a  gentleman  and  his  family  who  had  lived  in  our  big 
house  in  Church  Street  three  hundred  years  ago ;  and,  sitting  by 
habit  in  the  same  place,  Sunday  after  Sunday,  they  became  to 
me  real  and  actual  persons,  who  were  as  familiar  to  me  as  our 
neighbors,  and  yet  who  were  dead  and  gone  to  heaven  or  hell 
three  hundred  years  before,  — *-  people  who  had  twenty  years'  ex- 
perience of  the  next  world  to  show,  where  I  had  one  to  show  of 
this  present  life ;  people  who  had  solved  the  great  difficulty,  and 
who  could  tell  me  all  about  it,  if  they  would  only  turn  their  heads 
and  speak.  Yes,  these  Hillyars  became  real  people  to  me,  and  T, 
in  a  sort  of  way,  loved  them. 

I  gave  them  names  in  my  own  head.  I  loved  two  of  them. 
On  the  female  side  I  loved  the  little  wee  child,  for  whom  there 
was  very  small  room,  and  who  was  crowded  against  the  pillar, 
kneelino;  on  the  skirts  of  the  last  of  her  binr  sisters.  And  I  loved 
the  big  lad  who  knelt  directly  behind  his  father,  between  the 
knight  himself,  and  the  two  little  brothers,  dressed  so  very  like 
blue-coat  boys,  such  quaint  little  fellows  as  they  were. 

I  do  not  think  that  either  Joe  or  Emma  ever  cared  much  about 
this  tomb  or  its  effigies.  Though  we  three  sat  there  together  so 
very  often  for  several  winters,  I  do  not  think  it  ever  took  their 
attention  very  much ;  and  I,  being  a  silent  lad,  never  gave  loose 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  117 

to  my  fancies  about  that  family  monument  even  to  tliem.  I  used 
to  find,  in  the  burst  of  convorsntion  wliich  always  follows  the  re- 
lease of  young  folks  from  church,  that  we  all  three,  like  most 
young  people,  had  not  attended  to  the  sermon  at  all ;  but  that  our 
idle  fancies,  on  those  wild  winter  afternoons,  had  rambled  away 
in  strangely  dillerent  directions.  I  always  used  to  sit  between 
the  two  others,  upright,  with  my  head  nearly  against  the  little 
shield  which  carries  the  date,  "  Anno,  1539."  Soon  after  the  ser- 
mon had  begun  I  used  to  find  that  Joe's  great  head  was  heavy  on 
one  shoulder,  while  Emma  had  laid  her  cheek  quietly  against  the 
other,  and  had  stolen  her  hand  into  mine.  And  so  we  three  would 
sit,  in  a  pyramidal  group,  of  which  I  was  the  centre,  dreaming. 

I  used  to  find  that  Joe  would  be  building  fancies  of  the  dead 
who  lay  around  us,  of  what  they  had  done,  and  of  what  they 
might  have  done,  had  God  allowed  them  t.o  foresee  the  conse- 
quences of  their  actions ;  but  that  Emma  had  been  listening  to 
the  rush  of  the  winter-wind  among  the  tombs  outside,  and  the 
lapping  of  the  winter-tide  upon  the  shore,  —  thinking  of  those 
who  were  tossed  far  away  upon  stormy  seas,  only  less  pitiless 
than  the  iron  coast  on  which  they  burst  in  their  cruel  fury. 

I  cannot  tell  how  often,  or  how  long,  we  three  sat  there.  But 
I  know  that  the  monument  had  a  new  interest  to  me  after  I  made 
Erne  Hillyar's  acquaintance,  and  began  to  realize  that  the  kneel- 
ing; fio-ures  there  were  his  ancestors.  I  tried  then  to  make  Erne 
the  living  take  his  place,  in  my  fancy,  among  the  images  of  his 
dead  forefathers  and  uncles ;  but  it  was  a  failure.  He  would  not 
come  in  it  all.  So  then  I  began  trying  to  make  out  which  of 
them  he  w^as  most  like  ;  but  he  was  n't  a  bit  like  any  one  of  them. 
They  none  of  them  would  look  round  at  you  with  their  heads  a 
little  on  one  side,  and  their  great  blue-black  eyes  wide  open,  and 
their  lips  half-parted  as  though  to  w^ait  for  what  you  were  going 
to  say.  These  ancestors  of  his  were  but  brass  after  all,  and  knelt 
one  behind  the  other  looking  at  the  backs  of  one  another's  heads. 
Erne  would  not  fit  in  among  them  by  any  means. 

But  one  day,  one  autumn  afternoon,  as  I  sat  with  Emma  on 
one  side,  and  Joe  on  the  other,  with  my  back  to  Sir  Thomas 
More's  tomb  and  my  face  to  Sir  John  Hillyar's,  thinking  of  these 
things,  I  got  a  chance  of  comparing  the  living  with  the  dead. 
For,  when  the  sermon  was  half-way  through,  I  heard  the  little 
door,  which  opens  straight  from  the  windy  wdiarf  into  the  quiet 
chancel,  opened  stealthily ;  and,  looking  round,  I  saw  that  Erne 
had  come  in,  and  was  sending  those  big  eyes  of  his  ranging  all 
over  the  church  to  look  for  something  which  was  close  by  all  the 
time.  I  saw  him  stand  close  to  me,  for  a  minute,  moving  his  no- 
ble head  from  side  to  side  as  he  peered  about  him,  like  an  emu 
who  has  wandered  into  a  stockyard ;  but  as  soon  as  he  had  swept 


118  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

the  horizon,  and  had  brought  his  eyes  to  range  nearer  home,  he 
saw  rae.  And  then  he  smiled,  and  I  knew  that  he  had  come  to 
find  us. 

And  after  service  we  walked  out  together.  And  the  sexton 
let  us  into  that  quiet  piece  of  the  church-yard  which  overlooks  the 
river,  and  we  stood  there  long  into  the  twilight,  talking  together 
as  we  leant  against  the  low  wall.  Erne  stood  upon  the  grave  of 
the  poor  Hillyar  girl  who  had  died  in  our  house,  as  his  habit  was, 
talking  to  me  and  looking  at  Emma.  The  time  went  so  quick 
that  it  was  dark  before  we  got  home ;  but  we  all  discovered  that 
it  was  a  very  capital  way  of  having  a  talk  together,  and  so,  with- 
out any  arrangement  at  all,  we  found  ourselves  there  again  very 
often.  Once  Emma  and  I  went  along  with  Frank ;  but  Frank, 
having  eaten  a  dinner  for  six,  went  to  sleep,  and  not  only  went 
to  sleep,  but  had  the  nightmare,  in  a  manner  scandalously  audi- 
ble to  the  whole  congregation,  in  the  first  lesson.  Emma  had 
to  take  him  out,  and  when  I  came  out  at  the  end  of  the  service, 
I  found  that  Erne  and  Emma  were  together  by  the  river-wall, 
and  no  one  else  but  Frank.  He  had  seen  her  coming  out,  and 
had  stayed  with  her  for  company.  It  was  very  kind  of  him,  and 
I  told  him  so.     He  called  me  an  old  fool. 

The  Sunday  afternoon  on  which  we  were  to  meet  Erne  was  a 
wild  and  gusty  one,  the  wind  sweeping  drearily  along  the  shore, 
and  booming  and  rushing  among  the  railings  around  the  tombs. 
My  sister  and  I  went  alone,  and  sat  on  the  old  bench :  but  no 
Erne  made  his  appearance,  and  soon  I  had  ceased  to  think  much 
of  him. 

For  there  came  in  and  sat  opposite  to  me,  —  directly  under 
the  Hillyar  monument,  —  the  most  beautiful  lady  I  had  ever 
seen.  She  was  very  young,  with  a  wonderfully  delicate  com- 
plexion, and  looked  so  very  fragile,  that  I  found  myself  wonder- 
ing what  she  did  abroad  in  such  wild  weather.  She  was  dressed 
in  light  gray  silk,  which  gave  her  a  somewhat  ghostly  air ;  and 
she  looked  slightly  worn  and  anxious,  though  not  enough  to  in- 
terfere with  her  almost  preternatural  beauty.  AVhen  I  say  tliat 
I  had  never  seen  such  a  beautiful  woman  as  she  was,  I  at  once 
find  that  I  can  go  farther,  and  say,  that  I  have  never  since  seen 
any  one  as  beautiful  as  she  by  a  long  interval.  My  wife  was 
singularly  handsome  at  one  time.*  Mrs.  Oxton,  when  I  first  saw 
her,  was  certainly  beautiful.  Lady  Hainault,  my  namesake,  as 
I  reminded  her  once,  was,  and  is,  glorious ;  but  they  none  of 
them  could  ever  have  compared,  for  an  instant,  with  tliat  young 
lady  in  gray  silk,  who  came  and  sat  on  the  bench,  under  the 

*  The  Hon.  Mrs.  Burton  presents  her  compHments  to  the  Editor,  and  begs  to 
inform  him  that  this  is  the  first  she  ever  heard  of  it. 


THE  HTLLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  119 

ITillyar  monument,  opposite  my  sister  and  me,  on  that  wild 
autunni  afternoon. 

She  came  in  by  the  little  side  door  which  opens  from  the  chan- 
cel on  to  the  river.  She  sat  down  on  the  bench  opposite  me, 
beside  a  poor  cracked  old  sempstress,  whose  devotions  were  dis- 
turbed every  five  minutes  by  her  having  to  put  down  her  prayer- 
book  and  hunt  spiders,  and  old  Smith  the  blind  man,  who  used 
to  say  his  responses  in  a  surly,  defiant  tone  of  voice,  as  if  every 
response  was  another  item  in  a  bill  against  heaven,  which  had 
already  run  too  long,  and  ought  to  have  been  paid  long  ago. 

But  she  sat  down  in  this  fantastic  company,  and  seemed  glad 
to  rest.  Mrs.  Smith,  the  pew-opener,  the  blind  man's  wife, 
caught  sight  of  a  strange  sail  in  the  offing,  bore  down,  and  would 
have  brouglii  her  into  a  pew.  But  the  strange  lady  said  that  she 
M'as  tired,  and  would  sit  where  she  was. 

There  was  a  gentleman  with  her,  by  the  by.  A  tall  gentle- 
man, very  pale,  rather  anxious-looking,  without  any  hair  on  his 
face.  He  asked  her,  was  n't  she  afraid  of  the  draught  ?  And 
she  said,  "  No.  Please,  please  dear,  let  me  sit  here.  I  want 
rest,  dear.  Do  let  me  sit  here."  And  when  she  said  this  two 
ideas  came  into  my  head.  The  first  was  that  the  beautiful  lady 
was,  for  some  reason,  afraid  of  the  pale,  anxious  gentleman  ;  and 
the  second  was  that  they  were  Americans,  because,  —  although 
they  both  spoke  perfectly  good  English,  yet  they  seemed  to  have 
.no  hesitation  about  speaking  out  loud  in  church ;  which  tliey 
most  decidedly  did,  and  which,  as  I  am  informed  now,  the  Ameri- 
cans, as  a  general  rule,  do  not. 

No  Erne  made  his  appearance.  Emma  and  I  sat  on  our  ac- 
customed bench,  with  the  beautiful,  weary  lady  opposite.  The 
wind  rattled  at  the  old  casements,  and  when  the  sermon  began 
a  storm  of  sleet  came  driving  along  from  the  westward,  and  made 
the  atmosphere  freezing  cold.  The  strange  beautiful  lady  seemed 
to  cower  under  it,  to  draw  herself  together  and  to  draw  her 
shawl  closer  and  closer  around  her,  with  a  look  almost  of  terror 
on  her  face.  The  poor  lunatic  woman,  who  sat  beside  her,  put 
up  her  umbrella.  The  pew-opener  saw  her,  and  came  up  and 
fought  her  for  it,  with  a  view  to  making  her  put  it  down  again. 
The  cracked  woman  was  very  resolute,  and  Mrs.  Smith  was  (as 
I  think)  unnecessarily  violent,  and  between  them  they  drove  one 
of  the  points  of  the  umbrella  into  Smith's  eye ;  which,  as  Smith 
was  blind  already  did  n't  matter  much,  but  which  caused  him  a 
deal  of  pain,  and  ended  in  shovings  and  recriminations  between 
Mrs.  Smith  and  the  cracked  woman.  And  the  beautiful  lady, 
in  the  middle  of  it  all,  finding  no  rest  anywhere,  came  across 
wearily  and  feebly  and  sat  beside  Emma.  She  did  not  faint  or 
make  any  scene ;  but  when  I  looked  round  soon  after  I  saw  her 


120  THE   HILI-YAPvS   AND   THE   BURTONS. 

head  on  Emma's  shoulder,  and  Emma's  arm  round  her  waist. 
She  was  very  poorly,  but  the  pale  gentleman  did  not  see  it. 

After  service  she  took  his  arm,  and  while  the  people  were 
crowding  out  of  church  I  kept  near  them.     I  heard  her  say,  — 

"  I  cannot  stay  to  look  at  the  monument  to-day,  dear ;  I  am 
very  tired." 

"  Well,"  said  the  gentleman,  "  the  carriage  won't  be  long.  I 
told  them  to  meet  us  here." 

She  stood  actually  cowering  in  the  cold  blast  which  swept  off 
the  river  round  the  corner  of  the  church.  She  crouched  shudder- 
ing close  to  the  pale  man  and  said, — 

"  What  a  dreadful  country,  love.  Is  it  always  like  this  in 
England  ?  I  shall  die  here  I  am  afraid,  and  never  see  Aggy  any 
more,  and  poor  James  will  be  so  sorry.  But  I  am,  quite  brave 
and  resolute,  George.  I  would  not  change  my  lot  with  any 
woman,"  she  continued  rather  more  hastily;  "only  there  is  no 
sun  here,  and  it  is  so  very  dark  and  ugly." 

I  was  glad  to  hear  him  speak  kindly  to  her  and  soothe  her,  for 
I  could  not  help  fancying  that  she  would  have  been  glad  of  a 
gentler  companion.  But  I  had  little  time  to  think  of  this,  for 
Erne,  coming  quickly  out  the  open  gate  of  the  church-yard,  came 
up  to  them  and  said,  — 

"  Mr.  George  Hillyar?"    I  think. 

George  Hillyar  bowed  politely,  and  said,  "  Yes." 

•'  We  ought  to  know  one  another,"  said  Erne,  laughing ;  "  in 
fact,  I  am  your  brother  Erne." 

I  did  not  like  the  look  of  George  Hillyar's  face  at  all ;  he  had 
an  ugly  scowl  handy  for  any  one  who  might  require  it,  I  could 
see.  But  Erne  was  attracted  suddenly  by  his  sister-in-law's 
beauty,  and  so  he  never  saw  it ;  by  the  time  he  looked  into  his 
brother's  face  again  the  scowl  had  passed  away,  and  there  was 
a  look  of  pleased  admiration  instead.  Poor  Mrs.  Hillyar  seemed 
to  brighten  up  at  the  sight  of  Erne.  They  stood  talking  together 
affectionately  for  a  few  minutes,  and  then  the  George  Hillyars 
drove  away,  and  left  Erne  and  me  standing  together  in  the 
church-yard. 

"  What  a  handsome  disti?igue-\o6kmg^  fellow,"  said  Erne.  "  I 
know  I  shall  like  him." 

I  hoped  their  liking  might  be  mutual,  but  had  strong  doubts 
on  tlie  point. 


TIIK   IIILLYARS  AND   THE  BURTONS.  121 

CHAPTER    XXIV. 

HOMEWARD   BOUND. 

Skcrktary  Oxtox  was  a  wise  and  clever  fellow,  but  he  was 
liable  to  err,  like  the  rest  of  us.  Secretary  Oxton  was  an 
atfectionate,  good-hearted,  honorable  man,  a  gentleman  at  all 
points,  save  one.  He  was  clever  and  ambitious,  and  in  the  grand 
fight  he  had  fought  against  the  world,  in  the  steady  pluckily- 
fought  battle,  the  object  of  which  was  to  place  him,  a  younger 
son,  in  a  position  equal  to  that  of  his  elder  brother,  to  found  a 
new  and  wealthy  branch  of  the  Oxton  family,  he  had  contracted 
a  certain  fault,  from  which  his  elder  brother,  probably  from  the 
absence  of  temptation,  was  free. 

He  had  seen  that  wealth  was  the  key  to  the  position.  He  had 
seen,  early  in  the  struggle,  that  a  fool  with  wealth  was  often  of 
more  influence  than  a  wise  man  without  it.  And  so  he  had  won 
wealth  as  a  means  to  the  end  of  power.  But  the  gold  had  left 
a  little  of  its  dross  upon  him,  and  now  he  was  apt  to  overvalue  it. 

Acting  on  this  error,  he  had  put  before  him,  as  a  great  end, 
with  regard  to  George  and  Gerty  Hillyar,  that  George  should 
go  to  England  and  win  back  his  father's  favor.  His  wife,  good 
and  clever  as  she  was,  was  only,  after  all,  a  mirror  to  reflect  her 
hu>band's  stronger  will ;  consequently  there  was  no  one  to  warn 
him  of  the  folly  he  was  committing,  when  he  urged  George  so 
strono-lv  to  sro  to  Eno-land,  —  no  one  to  tell  him  of  the  danscer 
of  allowing  such  a  wild  fierce  hawk  as  Georire  to  net  out  of  the 
range  of  his  own  influence  ;  of  the  terrible  peril  he  incurred  on 
behalf  of  his  beloved  Gerty,  by  sending  him  far  away  from  the 
gentle  home  atmosphere,  which  had  begun  to  do  its  work  upon 
him  so  very  well,  and  throwing  him  headlong  among  his  old 
temptations,  with  no  better  guide  than  a  silly  little  fairy  of  a  Avife. 

He  could  not  see  all  this  in  his  blindness.  He  did  not  calcu- 
late on  the  amount  of  good  which  had  been  wrought  in  George's 
character  by  his  wife's  gentle  influence  and  his  own  manly  coun- 
sel. He  was  blinded  by  the  money  question.  He  did  not  see 
that  it  would  be  better  for  Gerty's  sake,  and  for  all  their  sakes, 
to  keep  Sir  George  Hillyer  near  him  with  two  thousand  a  year, 
a  busy,  happy  man,  than  to  have  him  living  in  England  without 
control,  amongst  all  his  old  temptations.  He  could  not  bear  the 
idea  of  that  odd  eight  or  nine  thousand  a  year  going  out  of  the 
family.  He  had  worked  at  money-getting  so  long  that  that  con- 
sideration outweiiihed,  nay,  obscured  every  other. 
6 


122  THE  HILLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS. 

And  so  he  encouraged  George  to  go  to  England.  And,  when 
the  last  grand  forest  cape  was  passed,  and  they  were  rushing  on 
towards  Cape  Horn  before  the  we.-t  wind,  and  the  dear  peaceful 
old  land  had  died  away  on  the  horizon,  and  was  as  something 
which  had  never  been  ;  and  when  Gerty  got  penitent,  and  sea- 
sick, and  tearful,  and  frightened,  and  yellow  in  the  face,  and 
everything  but  cross,  —  then  all  the  good  influences  of  James 
and  Agnes  Oxton  were  needed,  but  were  not  at  hand ;  and  such 
mischief  was  done  as  would  have  made  the  Secretary  curse  his 
own  folly  if  he  could  have  seen  it.  And  there  was  no  one  tc> 
stay  the  course  of  this  mischief,  but  tearful  silly  sea-sick  Gerty 

Poor  little  child  of  the  sun  !  Poor  little  bush  princess  !  brought 
up  without  a  thought  or  a  care  on  the  warm  hillside  at  Neville's 
Gap,  in  the  quiet  house  which  stood  half-way  up  the  mountain, 
with  a  thousand  feet  of  feathering  woodland  behind,  and  fifty 
miles  of  forest  and  plain  before  and  below.  Brought  up  in  a 
quiet  luxurious  home,  among  birds  and  flowers  and  pet  dogs ;  a 
poor  little  body,  the  cares  in  whose  life  were  the  arrivals  of  the 
pianoforte-tuner  on  his  broken-kneed  gray,  supposed  to  be  five 
hundred  years  old  ;  who  had  never  met  with  but  two  adventures 
in  her  life  before  marriage,  the  first  of  which  she  could  barely 
remember,  and  the  second  when  James  and  Aggy  carried  her  off 
in  a  steamer  to  Sydney,  and  Aggy  chaperoned  her  to  the  great 
ball  at  Government  House,  and  she  had  wondered  why  the  peo- 
ple stared  at  her  so  when  she  walked  up  the  room  following  in 
Aggy's  wake,  as  she  sailed  stately  on  before  towards  the  pres- 
ence, until  she  was  told  next  morning  that  James  had  won  £  500 
on  her  beauty,  for  that  Lady  Gipps  had  pronounced  her  to  be 
more  beautiful  than  young  Mrs.  Buckley  nee  Brentwood,  of  Ga- 
roopna,  in  Gippsland. 

But  here  was  a  change.  This  low  sweeping  gray  sky,  and  the 
wild  heaving  cold  gray  sea,  and  then  the  horrible  cliffs  of  bitter 
floating  ice,  at  whose  base  the  hungry  sea  leaped  and  slid  up, 
gnawing  caverns  and  crannies,  yet  pitifully  smoothing  away,  with 
their  ceaseless  wash,  a  glacis,  to  which  the  linger  of  no  drown- 
ing man  might  hope  to  clutch  that  he  might  prolong  his  misery. 
The  sun  seemed  gone  forever,  and  as  they  made  each  degree  of 
southing,  Gerty  got  more  shivering  and  more  tearful,  and  seemed 
to  shrink  more  and  more  into  her  wrappers  and  cloaks. 

But  all  this  had  a  very  different  effect  on  Mrs.  Nalder.  On 
that  magnificent  American  woman  it  had  a  bracing  effect ;  it  put 
new  roses  into  her  face,  and  made  her  stand  firmer  on  her  marine 
continuations,  —  had  I  been  speaking  about  an  English  duchess 
I  should  have  said  her  sea-legs.  vShe  was  n't  sick,  not  she ;  but 
Nalder  was,  and  so  it  fell  to  George's  lot  to  squire  Mrs.  Nalder, 
an  employment  he  found  to  be  so  charming  that  he  devoted  him- 


THE  HILLYARS  AND   THE  BURTONS.  123 

self  to  it.  Mrs.  Nulder  got  very  fond  of  George,  and  told  her 
husband  so;  whereuj)Oii  Mr.  Nalder  replied  that  he  was  uncom- 
mon glad  she  had  found  some  on«'  to  gallivant  her  round,  for  that 
he  was  darned  if  he  rose  out  of  that  under  forty  south.  And, 
when  forty  south  came,  and  Gerty  made  her  appearance  on  deck 
with  Mrs.  Nalder,  she  found  that  dreadful  Yankee  woman  call- 
ing George  about  here  and  there,  as  if  he  belonged  to  her. 
Gerty  got  instantly  jealous,  although  Mrs.  Nalder  was  kind  and 
gentle  to  her,  and  would  have  been  a  sister  to  her.  Gerty  re- 
pulsed her.  Mrs.  Nalder  wondered  why.  The  idea  of  anybody 
being  sufficiently  insane  to  be  jealous  of  her  never  entered  into 
her  honest  head.  She  asked  her  husband,  who  did  n't  know,  but 
said  that  Ostrellyan  gells  were,  as  a  jennle  rule,  whimsical  young 
cusses. 

No.  Gerty  would  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  kind-hearted 
American  woman,  for  she  was  bitterly  jealous  of  her.  And  Mr. 
Nalder  Ji'ightened  her,  that  honest  tradesman,  with  his  way  of 
prefacing  half  his  remarks  by  saying  "  Je-hoshaphat,"  which 
frightened  her  out  of  her  wits  for  what  was  coming.  His  way 
of  thwackinc;  down  his  rio^ht  or  left  bower  at  eucre,  his  callini]r 
the  trump-card  the  deck-head,  his  way  of  eating  with  his  knife, 
and  his  reckless  noisy  bonhommie,  were  all  alike,  I  am  sorry  to 
say,  disgusting  to  her ;  nothing  he  could  do  was  right ;  and,  after 
all,  Nalder  was  a  good  fellow.  George  got  angry  with  her  about 
her  treatment  of  these  people,  and  scolded  her ;  and  he  could  not 
scold  by  halves ;  he  terrified  her  so  that  he  saw  he  must  never 
do  it  again.  He  put  a  strong  restraint  on  himself;  to  do  the 
man  justice,  he  did  that ;  and  was  as  tender  and  gentle  with  her 
as  he  could  be  for  a  time.  But  his  features  had  been  too  much 
accustomed  to  reflect  violent  passion  to  make  it  possible  for  him 
to  act  his  part  at  all  times.  Her  dull,  fearful  submission  irritated 
him,  and  there  came  times  w^hen  that  irritation,  unexpressed  in 
words  and  actions,  would  show  itself  too  faithfully  in  his  face ; 
and  so  that  look  of  pitiable  terror  which  had  come  into  Gerty's 
great  eyes  the  first  time  he  had  sworn  at  her,  that  i-estless  shift- 
ing of  the  pupil  from  side  to  side,  accompanied  by  a  spasmodic 
quivering  of  the  eyelids,  never,  never  wholly  passed  away  any 
more.  /'That  he  could  have  cursed  her,  that  he  could  have 
snarled  at  her,  and  cursed  her.  It  was  too  horrible.  Could 
James  have  been  right  ?  And  Neville's  Gap  so  many  thousand 
miles  away,  and  getting  further  with  every  bound  of  the  sliip  !  " 

George  saw  all  this,  and  it  made  him  mad.  He  tbund  out 
now  that  he  had  ":ot  a  ureat  deal  fonder  of  beautiful  Mrs,  Nalder 
than  he  had  any  right  to  be,  and  after  a  week's  penitential  atten- 
tion to  Gerty  he  went  over  to  Mrs.  Naldei,  and  begim  the  petits 
soins  business  with  her  once  more.     But,  unluckily  for  him,  Mrs 


124  THE  HILLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS. 

Nalder  had  found  him  out.  George,  poor  fool,  thought  that  the 
American  woman's  coohie>s  towards  him  arose  from  jealousy  at 
his  having  returned  to  his  wife.  He  found  his  mistake.  The 
brave  Illinois  woman  met  him  with  a  storm  of  indignation,  and 
rated  him  about  his  treatment  of  his  wnfe.  She  had  no  tact,  or 
she  would  not  have  done  so,  for  she  only  made  matters  worse. 

Of  all  the  foolish  things  which  James  Oxton  ever  did,  this 
was  the  worst :  sending  these  two  out  of  the  range  of  his  own 
and  his  wife's  influence. 

Gerty  revived  a  little  in  the  tropics.  The  sun  warmed  her 
into  something  like  her  old  self.  But  all  Mrs.  Nalder's  kindness 
failed  to  win  her  over.  She  suspected  her  and  was  jealous  of 
her ;  and,  besides,  the  great  handsome  woman  of  the  Western 
prairies  was  offensive  to  the  poor  little  robin  of  a  creature.  She 
was  coarse  and  loud,  and  her  hands  were  large,  and  she  was  so 
strong.  She  could  n't  even  make  Gerty  comfortable  on  a  bench 
without  hurting  her.  And,  besides,  Gerty  could  see  through  all 
this  affected  attention  which  she  showed  her.  Gerty,  like  most 
silly  women,  thought  herself  vastly  clever.  Mrs.  Nalder  was  a 
most  arttul  and  dangerous  woman.  All  this  assumed  affection 
might  blind  her  poor  husband,  but  could  never  blind  her. 

But  the  good  ship  rolled  and  blundered  on,  until  it  grew  to  be 
forty  north,  instead  of  forty  south,  and  the  sunny  belt  was  passed 
once  more,  and  Gerty  began  to  pine  and  droop  again.  George 
would  land  at  Dover ;  and  he  landed  in  a  steamer  which  came 
alongside.  And  the  last  of  the  old  ship  was  this,  —  that  all  the 
crew  and  the  passengers  stood  round  looking  at  her.  And  Mrs. 
Nalder  came  up  and  kissed  her,  and  said,  very  quietly,  "My 
dear,  we  may  never  meet  again,  but  when  we  do,  you  will  know 
me  better  than  you  do  now.  Then  Gerty  broke  into  tears,  and 
asked  Mrs.  Nalder  to  forgive  her,  and  Mrs.  Nalder,  that  coarse 
and  vulgar  person,  called  her  a  darling  little  sunbeam,  and  wept 
too,  after  the  Chicago  style  (and  when  they  do  things  at  Chicago, 
mind  you,  they  do  'em  with  a  will).  Then  Gerty  was  on  the 
deck  of  the  little  steamer,  and,  while  she  was  w^ondering  through 
her  tears  why  the  sides  of  the  ship  looked  so  very  high,  there 
came  from  the  deck  a  sound  like  a  number  of  dass  bells  rinfjinsf 
together  and  ceasing  at  once ;  then  the  sound  came  again,  louder 
and  clearer ;  and  as  it  came  the  third  time,  George  raised  her 
arm,  and  said  —  "  Wave  your  handkerchief,  Gerty  ;  quick,  don't 
you  hear  them  cheering  you  ?  " 

And,  directly  afterwards,  tliey  stood  on  the  slippery,  slimy 
boards  of  the  pier  at  Dover,  on  the  dull  English  winter  day ;  and 
she  looked  round  at  the  chalk  cliffs,  whose  crests  were  shrouded 
in  mist,  and  at  the  muddy  street,  and  the  dark  colored  houses, 
and  she  said,  "  Oh,  dear,  dear  me.  Is  this,  this  England,  George  ? 
What  a  nasty,  cold,  ugly,  dirty  place  it  is." 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS, 


CHAPTER    XXV. 

GERTY'S  FIRST  INNINGS. 


A  VERT  few  days  before  Sir  George  Hillyar  received  the  note 
which  told  him  of  his  son's  arrival  in  England,  he  happened  to 
be  out  shooting  alone,  and  his  keeper  saw  that  he  was  very  anx- 
ious and  absent,  and  shot  very  badly  indeed.  He  conceived  tliat 
it  was  Sir  George's  anxiety  about  his  son's  arrival,  and  thought 
little  about  it ;  but,  as  the  day  went  on,  it  became  evident  that 
Sir  George  wanted  to  broach  some  subject,  and  had  a  hesitation 
in  doing  so. 

At  last  he  said,  —  "  What  state  are  the  boats  in,  Morton  ?  " 

"  They  are  in  very  good  repair.  Sir  George." 

"  I  think  I  shall  have  them  painted." 

"  They  were  painted  last  week.  Sir  George." 

"  I  shall  get  new  oars  for  them,  I  fancy." 

"  The  new  oars,  which  you  ordered  while  staying  at  Kew,  came 
home  last  Thursday,  Sir  Georo;e." 

"  H'm.  Hey.  Then  there  is  no  work  for  a  waterman  about 
the  lake,  is  there  ?  " 

"  None  whatever,  Sir  George." 

"  Morton,  you  are  a  fool.  If  I  had  not  more  tact  than  you  I 
would  hang  myself  before  I  went  to  bed." 

"  Yes,  Sir  George." 

"  Send  for  the  young  waterman  that  we  had  at  Kew,  and  find 
him  some  work  about  the  boats  for  a  few  days." 

'*  Yes,  Sir  George." 

"  You  know  whom  I  mean  ?  " 

"  No,  Sir  George." 

"  Then  why  the  devil  did  you  say  you  did  ?  " 

"  I  did  not,  Sir  George." 

"  Then  you  contradict  me  ?  " 

"I  hope  I  know  my  place  better.  Sir  George.  But  I  never 
did  say  I  knew  who  you  mean,  for  I  don't ;  in  consequence  I 
could  n't  have  said  I  did.  Maark  !  caawk  !  Awd  drat  this  jaw- 
ing in  cover.  Sir  George  !  Do  hold  your  tongue  till  we  're  out  on 
the  heth  agin.     How  often  am  I  to  tell  you  on  it  ?  " 

So  he  did.  At  the  next  pause  in  the  sport  old  Morton  said, 
"  Now,  Sir  George,  what  do  you  want  done  ?  " 

"  I  want  that  young  man,  Reuben  Burton,  whom  we  had  at 
Kew,  fetched  over.  I  want  you  to  make  an  excuse  for  his  corn- 
ins  to  mend  the  boats.     That 's  what  1  want." 


126  THE  IIILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  Then  wlij  could  n't  you  have  said  so  at  once  ?  "  said  old  Mor- 
ton to  his  face. 

"  Because  I  did  n't  choose.  If  you  get  so  impudent,  Morton, 
I  shall  be  seriously  an2;ry  with  3'ou." 

"Ah!  I'll  chance  all  that,"  said  Morton  to  himself;  "you're 
easy  enough  managed  by  those  as  knows  you.  I  wonder  why  he 
has  taken  such  a  fancy  to  this  young  scamp.  I  wonder  if  he 
knows  he  is  Sam  Burton's  son.     I  suspect  he  do." 

But  old  Morton  said  nothing  more,  and  Reuben  was  sent  for 
to  Stanlake. 

Sir  George  was  going  out  shooting  again  when  Reuben  came. 
The  old  butler  told  him  that  the  young  waterman  was  come,  and 
Sir  George  told  him  that  he  must  wait ;  but,  when  Sir  George 
came  out,  he  had  got  a  smile  on  his  face  ready  to  meet  the  merry 
young  rascal  who  had  amused  him  so  much. 

"  Hallo  !  you  fellow,"  he  began,  laughing  ;  but  he  stopped  sud- 
denly, for  the  moment  he  looked  at  Reuben  Burton  he  saw  that 
there  was  a  great  change  in  him.  Reuben  had  lost  all  his  old 
vivacity,  and  had  a  painfully  worn,  eager  look  on  his  face. 

"  Why,  how  the  lad  is  changed ! "  said  Sir  George.  "  You 
have  been  falling  in  love,  you  young  monkey.  Go  and  see  to 
those  boats,  and  put  them  in  order." 

Reuben  went  wearily  to  work  ;  there  was  really  nothing  to  do. 
Sir  George  merely  had  him  over  to  gratify  a  fancy  for  seeing 
him  again.  It  may  have  been  that  he  was  disappointed  in  find- 
ing the  merry  slangy  lad  he  had  got  to  like  looking  so  old  and 
anxious,  or  it  may  have  been  that  his  nervous  anxiety  for  the 
approaching  interview  with  his  son  put  Reuben  out  of  his  head ; 
but,  however  it  was,  Sir  George  never  went  near  Reuben  after 
the  first  time  he  had  looked  at  him,  and  had  seen  the  change  in 
him.  No  one  will  ever  know  now  what  was  working  in  Sir 
George's  heart  towards  Reuben  Burton.  The  absence  of  all  in- 
quiries on  his  part  as  to  who  Reuben  was  decidedly  favors  James 
Burton  the  elder's  notion,  that  Sir  George  guessed  he  was  the 
son  of  Samuel  Burton,  and  that  he  did  not,  having  conceived  a 
strange  affection  for  the  lad,  wish  to  push  his  inquiries  too  far. 
It  may  have  been  this,  or  it  may  have  been  merely  an  old  man's 
fancy  ;  but  even  now,  when  he  seemed  to  have  passed  the  lad  by 
himself,  he  made  Erne  go  and  see  him  every  morning. 

"  Erne,"  he  said,  "  that  boy  is  in  trouble.  In  secret  trouble. 
Find  his  secret  out,  my  child,  and  let  us  help  him." 

But  kind  and  gentle  Erne  couldn't  do  that.  Reuben  went  as 
far  as  telling  him  that  he  was  in  trouble ;  but  also  told  him  that 
he  could  say  nothing  more,  for  the  sake  of  others. 

"  I  say,  old  Rube,"  said  Erne,  as  he  sat  lolling  against  the  side 
of  a  boat  which  Reuben  was  mending,  "  I  have  found  out  the 
whole  of  the  business  from  beginning  to  end." 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  127 

"  Have  you,  sir  ?  "  said  Reuben,  with  a  gliost  of  a  smile.  "  I 
am  glad  of  it." 

"  You  have  been  getting  into  bad  company,"  said  Erne. 

«  Very  bad,"  said  Reuben. 

"And  you  are  innocent  yourself?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Reuben.  "  Come.  I  could  n't  say  as  much  to 
every  one,  IMaster  Erne ;  but  I  know,  when  I  say  a  thing  to  you, 
that  it  won't  go  any  further.  Therefore  I  confide  this  to  your 
honor,  for  if  you  betray  me  I  am  lost.     I  am  innocent." 

Erne  laughed.  ''  Tliat  is  something  like  your  old  familiar  non- 
sense, Reuben.     Tell  me  all  about  it." 

"  It  would  be  awkward  for  you  if  I  did,  sir." 

"  Well !  well !  "  said  Erne.  "  I  believe  in  you^  anyway.  I  say, 
does  Emma  know  about  it  ?  " 

"  God  bless  you,  no,"  said  Reuben.  "  Don't  tell  her  nothing, 
for  God's  sake,  Master  Erne." 

'*  You  haven't  told  me  anything,  Reuben ;  so  how  could  I 
teUher?" 

"  I  mean,  don't  let  her  know  that  Sir  George  noticed  how  I 
was  altered.  I  should  like  her  to  think  the  best  of  me  to  the 
last.  If  trouble  comes,  the  bitterest  part  of  it  will  be  the  being 
disgraced  before  her.     Don't  say  anything  to  her." 

"  Why  should  I  be  likely  to  ?  "  said  Erne. 

"  Why,"  said  Reuben,  "  I  mean,  when  you  and  she  was  sitting 
together  all  alone,  courting,  that  you  might  say  this  and  that,  and 
not  put  me  in  the  best  light.  Lo7-d  love  you,  master,  /  know  all 
about  that  courting  business.  When  the  arm  is  round  the  waist 
the  tongue  won't  keep  between  the  teeth." 

"  But  I  am  not  courting  Emma,"  said  Erne.     "At  least  —  " 

"  At  least  or  at  most,  master,  you  love  the  ground  she  walks 
on.  Never  mind  what  your  opinion  about  your  own  state  of 
mind  is.  Only  be  honorable  to  her.  And,  when  the  great  smash 
comes,  keep  them  in  mind  of  me." 

"  Keep  who  in  mind  .^  "  said  Erne. 

"  Jim  and  Emma.  Help  'em  to  remember  me.  I  should  be 
glad  to  think  that  you  three  thought  of  me  while  I  was  there." 

"  While  you  are  where  ?  "  said  Erne,  in  a  very  low  voice. 

"  In  Coldbath  Fields,  master,"  said  Reuben.  "  Now  you  've 
got  it." 

One  need  not  say  that  Erne  was  distressed  by  the  way  in  which 
Reuben  spoke  of  himself.  He  was  very  sorry  for  Reuben,  and 
was  prepared  to  die  for  him;  but  — 

He  was  seventeen,  and  Reuben  had  accused  him  of  his  first 
love.  Poor  Reuben,  by  a  few  wild  words,  had  let  a  flood  of  light 
in  on  to  his  boy's  heart.  Reuben  was  the  first  who  had  told  him 
that  he  was  in  love.     One  hai>,  in  chemistry,  seen  a  glass-jar  full 


128  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

of  crystal  clear  liquid,  clear  as  water,  yet  so  saturated  with  some 
salt  that  the  touch  of  any  clumsy  hand  will  send  the  spicula?  quiv- 
ering^ through  it  in  every  direction,  and  prove  to  the  sense  of  sight 
that  the  salt,  but  half-beheved  in  before,  is  there  in  overpowering 
quantities.  So  Reuben's  words  crystallized  Erne's  love  ;  and  he 
denied  it  to  himself  no  longer.  And  in  this  great  gush  of  un- 
ntterable  happiness  poor  Reuben's  trouble  and  disgrace  were 
only  a  more  incident,  —  a  tragical  incident,  wliich  would  be  a 
new  bond  in  their  love. 

So  Enie,  leaving  poor  Reuben  tinkering  at  the  boats,  walked 
on  air.  He  had  determined,  as  he  walked  through  the  wood, 
tliat  the  first  thing  he  would  do  would  be  to  go  off  to  Chelsea,  — 
to  get  Jim  Burton,  the  blacksmith's  eldest  son  (with  Avhom  you 
have  already  some  acquaintance),  and  to  tell  him  all  about  it ; 
when,  walking  through  the  wood,  he  met  his  father. 

"  Have  you  been  to  see  that  young  waterman,  Erne  ?  "  said  his 
father. 

"  I  have,"  said  Erne.  "  We  ought  to  be  kind  to  that  fellow, 
dad.     He  is  in  trouble,  and  is  innocent." 

"  I  think  he  is,"  said  Sir  George.  "  I  have  a  great  fancy  for 
that  fellow.     I  know  what  is  the  matter  with  him." 

"  Do  you  ?  "  said  Erne.     "  I  don't." 

"  Why,  it 's  about  this  Eliza  Burton,"  said  Sir  George,  looking 
straight  at  him ;  "  that's  what  is  tlie  matter." 

"  You  don't  happen  to  mean  Emma  Burton,  do  you  ? "  said 
Erne. 

"  Emma  or  Eliza,  or  something  of  that  sort,"  said  Sir  George. 
*'  He  is  in  love  with  her,  and  she  is  playing  the  fool  with  some 
one  else." 

"  He  is  not  in  love  with  her,  and  she  has  been  playing  the  fool 
with  nobody,"  said  Erne. 

"  So  you  think,"  said  Sir  George ;  "  I,  however,  happen  to  know 
the  world,  and  from  the  familiarities  which  you  have  confessed  to 
me  as  passing  between  this  girl  and  yourself,  I  am  of  a  different 
opinion.  I  have  allowed  you  to  choose  what  comjDany  you  wished 
for  above  a  year ;  I  have  been  rewarded  by  your  full  confidence, 
and,  from  what  you  told  me  about  this  girl,  I  believe  her  to  be  an 
artful  and  dangerous  young  minx." 

"  Don't  talk  in  that  light  way  about  your  future  daughter-in- 
law  ;  I  am  going  to  marry  that  girl.  1  am  seventeen,  and  in 
three  years  I  shall  marry  her." 

"  How  dare  you  talk  such  nonsense  ?  Suppose,  sir,  that  I  was 
to  alter I  mean,  to  stop  your  allowance,  sir,  hey  ?  " 

"  Then  the  most  gentlemanly  plan  would  be  to  give  me  notice. 
Her  father  will  teach  me  his  trade." 

"You  are  impertinent,  undutiful,  and,  what  is  worse,  a  fool 


THE  UILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  129 

"And  all  that  sort  of  thing,"  said  Erne.  "  Having  fired  your 
broadside  of  live-and-forty  sixty-eight  pounders,  perhaps  you  will 
let  off  your  big  swivel-gun  on  deck.  I  tell  you  I  am  going  to 
marry  Emma  Burton." 

"  You  know,  you  undutiful  and  wicked  boy,  all  the  consequen- 
ces of  a  mesalliance " 

"That's  the  big  gun,  hey?"  said  Erne.  ""Why,  yes;  your 
mesalliance  with  my  mother  having  been  dinned  into  my  ears 
ever  since  I  was  five,  as  the  happiest  match  ever  made,  I  do 
know  ;  you  have  put  your  foot  in  it  there.  A  blacksmith's  daugh- 
ter is  as  good  as  a  gamekeeper's,  any  day." 

"  Her  relations,  sir  !     Her  relations  !" 

"  My  Uncle  Bob,  sir  !     My  Uncle  Bob  ! " 

Old  Compton  the  lawyer  had  warned  Erne,  on  one  previous 
occasion,  against  what  he  called  "  hard  hitting."  But  Erne,  as 
Reuben  would  have  said,  could  never  keep  his  tongue  between 
his  teeth.  His  Uncle  Bob  was  a  very  sore  subject.  His  Uncle 
Bob  had  not  borne  the  rise  in  circumstances  consequent  on.  his 
sister  becoming  Lady  Hillyar  with  that  equanimity  which  is  the 
characteristic  of  great  minds.  The  instant  he  heard  of  the  honor 
in  store  for  him,  he  got  drmik,  and  had  remained  so,  with  slight 
lucid  intervals  ever  since,  —  a  period  of  eighteen  years.  Having 
the  constitution  of  a  horse,  and  the  temper  of  his  sister,  he  had 
survived  hitherto,  and  was  quoted  from  one  doctor  to  another  as 
tiie  most  remarkable  instance  ever  known  of  the  habitual  use  of 
stimulants.  They  used  to  give  clinical  lectures  on  him,  and  at 
last  made  liim  uncommonly  proud  of  his  performances.  Such, 
combined  with  a  facility  for  incurring  personal  liabilities,  which 
was  by  no  means  impaired  by  his  intemperate  habits,  were  some 
of  the  characteristics  of  Uncle  Bob,  now  triumphantly  throw^n  in 
Sir  George's  face  by  Erne. 

He  was  very  angry.  He  said  that  such  an  allusion  as  that,  on 
Erne's  part,  revealed  to  him  such  an  abyss  of  moral  squalor  be- 
neath the  surface  as  he  was  not  prepared  for  in  the  case  of  one 
60  young. 

"  Now,  mark  me,  sir.  Once  for  all.  I  do  not  oppose  your  fancy 
for  this  girl.  I  encourage  it.  You  distinctly  understand  that  once 
for  all.     Your  brother  dines  here  to-day." 

"  So  I  hear,"  said  Erne,  seeing  it  would  not  do  to  go  on  with 
any  more  nonsense. 

"•'  I  hope  sincerely  that  you  and  your  brother  will  remain  friends. 
I  do  not  ])urpose  your  seeing  much  of  him.  His  wife  has,  I  hear, 
some  claims  to  beauty." 

"  She  is  the  sweetest  little  rosebud  you  ever  saw  in  your  life.'* 

"  Where  have  you  seen  her?  I  know  you  did  n't  go  to  seek 
them,  because  you  promised  me  you  would  not." 

6*  I 


130  THE  HILLYAES  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  I  did  not,  indeed.  I  guessed  who  they  were  from  a  few 
words,  they  said  in  church,  and,  as  I  came  out,  I  introduced  my- 
self." 

*'  Where  were  you  ?    At  what  church  ?  " 

"  At  the  old  church,  Chelsea." 

"  What  a  singular  thing.     Is  Compton  come  ?  " 

It  was  with  intense  eagerness  that  Mr.  Com^Dton,  knowing  what 
he  knew,  watched  the  face  of  father  and  son,  when  they  met  after 
60  many  years  estrangement.  He  knew  perfectly  how  much,  how 
very  much,  each  of  them  had  to  forgive  the  other ;  and  he  knew, 
moreover,  that  neither  of  them  had  the  least  intention  of  forgive- 
ness. He  guessed  that  George  had  come  over  to  try  to  win  back 
his  father's  good  graces  with  the  assistance  of  his  wife ;  but  he 
knew  far  too  much  to  hope  much  from  her  assistance.  One  thing 
he  knew,  which  others  only  guessed,  that  Sir  George  Hillyar  had 
made  a  will,  leaving  Erne  eight  thousand  a  year.  This  was  the 
paper,  which  (if  your  memory  will  carry  you  back  so  many 
months)  he  had  exhibited  such  an  anxiety  to  take  to  his  office, 
but  which  Sir  George  insisted  on  keeping  in  his  old  escritoire. 

He  was  in  the  library,  and  Sir  George  was  out  when  he  heard 
them  drive  up.  He  knew  that  there  was  no  one  to  receive  them, 
and  saw  from  that  that  their  reception  was  to  be  formal.  He  did 
not  hurry  at  his  dressing,  for  he  was  in  some  small  hopes  that 
George  and  his  wife  might  have  a  short  time,  were  it  only  a  min- 
ute, together  alone  with  Sir  George,  and  that  either  of  them 
might  show  some  gleam  of  affection  towards  the  other,  which 
might  bring  on  a  better  state  of  things  than  the  cold,  cruel  course 
of  formality  which  Sir  George  had  evidently  planned. 

"  It  will  be  a  bad  job  for  Erne,  possibly,"  said  the  old  man. 
"  But  my  young  friend  must  take  his  chance.  I  won't  stand  be- 
tween father  and  son,  even  for  him." 

When  he  came  into  the  drawing-room  he  found  Erne  and  his 
father  dressed  and  waiting.  They  were  standing  together  at  the 
very  end  of  the  third  drawing-room,  before  the  fire,  and  Sir 
George  was  talking  to  Erne  about  one  of  the  horses.  When  he 
joined  them,  a  question  was  put  to  him  on  the  subject ;  and  they 
went  on  discussing  it.  There  was  not  the  smallest  sign  of  anx- 
iety or  haste  about  Sir  George's  manner. 

He  had  not  been  talking  with  Erne  many  minutes,  when  the 
door  by  which  he  had  entered,  which  was  at  the  very  farthest 
end  of  the  three  rooms,  was  opened  again ;  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
George  Hillyar  came  in,  and  began  making  their  way  through 
the  vast  arcliipelago  of  grand  furniture  which  lay  between  the 
opposing  parties.  Sir  George  took  out  his  watch,  cUcked  it 
open,  and  told  Erne  to  ring  tlie  bell  and  order  dinner. 

The  three  rooms  were  well  lighted  up,  and,  great  as  the  dis- 


THE   IIILLYARS   AND   Till-:   DUKTONS.  135 

sociate  with  people  so  far  below  liiiii  in  rank.  T  don't  know  wliy 
tliat  young  gentleman's  father  has  sliown  sueli  bhnd  trust  in  liiui. 
It  may  be  bi'eiiuse  he  has  sueh  full  and  perfeet  confidence  in  him, 
or  it  may  be  that  his  great  love  for  him  ha^  made  him  foohsli. 
AVhichever  way  it  is,  for  that  young  gentleman  to  abuse  his 
father's  confidence  so  utterly  as  to  go  masquerading  in  a  dress 
which  he  has  no  right  to  wear,  in  the  lowest  parts  of  the  town, 
with  two  common  lads,  is  a  degree  of  meanness  which  I  don't 
expect  at  all." 

As  she  said  this  I  saw  Joe's  magnificent,  Byron-like  head 
turned  in  anger  upon  her,  and  I  saw  a  wild,  indignant  flush  rise 
upon  his  face,  and  go  reddening  up  to  the  roots  of  his  close,  curl- 
ling  hair ;  I  saw  it  rise,  and  then  I  saw  it  die  away,  as  Joe  limped 
towards  her,  and  kissed  her.  Whether  she  had  seen  it,  or  not, 
it  was  hard  to  say,  but  she  had  guessed  it  would  be  there :  she 
put  her  arm  round  his  neck,  and  then  drew  his  face  against  hers, 
saying, 

"  Ask  my  brother  Joe,  here,  what  he  thinks." 

"  He  thinks  as  you  do,  and  so  do  I,"  said  Erne,  quietly.  "  If 
you  were  always  by  me  I  should  never  do  wrong." 

"Ask  Jim  what  he  thinks  about  it,"  said  Emma,  la^ughing. 
'•  Ask  that  great  stupid,  dear  old  Jim,  how  he  would  like  to  see 
his  noble  hero,  w^ith  a  greasy  old  cap  on,  sucking  oranges  in  the 
gallery  of  the  theatre  in  the  New  Cut.  Look  how  he  stands 
there,  like  a  stupid  old  ox.  But  I  know  who  is  the  best  of  us 
four,  nevertheless." 

The  "stupid  old  ox  — "  that  is  to  say,  the  Honorable  James 
Burton,  who  is  now  addressing  you,  —  had  thrown  his  leather 
apron  over  his  left  shoulder,  and  was  scratching  his  head.  I  am 
afraid  that  I  did  look  very  like  a  stupid  ox.  But  think  that,  if 
you  had  taken  the  cobwebs  out  of  my  brain,  and  wound  them 
off  on  a  card,  you  would  have  found  that  I  was  making  a  feeble 
effort  to  try  to  think  that  my  brother  and  sister  were  two  rather 
heroic  and  noble  persons.  After  all,  I  only  fancy  that  I  remem- 
ber that  I  was  trying  to  think  that  I  thought  so.  I  am  no  fool, 
but  that  fierce  flush  on  Joe's  face  had  confused  and  frightened 
me.  I  saw  very  great  danger.  I  had  not  seen  that  look  there 
for  a  long  time. 

Erne  gave  up  his  project,  and  soon  went  away  in  the  best 
of  humors ;  Joe  went  to  his  school ;  and  I  was  left  alone  with 
Emma. 

Though  I  still  had  my  apron  over  my  shoulder,  and  might,  for 
all  I  ci\n  remember,  have  still  been  scratching  my  head,  yet  still 
all  the  cobwebs  in  my  brain  were  drawn  out  into  one  strong 
thread,  stronger  than  silk,  and  I  knew  what  to  say  and  what  to 
do.     I  turned  on  Emma. 


136  THE  HILLY ARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"You  were  perfectly  right,"  I  said,  "in  stopping  him  going. 
You  were  right  in  every  word  you  said  to  him  ;  but  you  had  no 
right  to  speak  of  Joe  and  myself  as  you  did." 

She  folded  her  hands,  sweet  saint,  as  if  in  prayer,  and  took  it 
all  so  quietly. 

"  It  was  not  good  to  speak  of  your  brother  so,"  I  went  on,  with 
heightened  voice  and  an  angry  face.  "  You  may  speak  as  you 
please  of  me  but,  if  you  speak  in  that  way  of  Joe,  before  his 
face,  you  will  raise  the  devil  in  him,  and  there  will  be  mischief. 
You  should  measure  your  words.  Let  me  never  hear  that  sort 
of  thing  again." 

I  was  right  in  every  word  I  said  to  her.  And  yet  I  would 
give  all  my  great  wealth,  my  title,  everything  I  have,  except  my 
wife  and  children,  to  unsay  those  words  again.  O,  you  who  use 
hard  words,  however  true  they  may  be,  when  will  you  be  per- 
suaded that  every  hard,  cold  word  you  use  is  one  stone  on  a 
great  pyramid  of  useless  remorse  ? 

How  did  she  answer  me  ?  She  ran  to  me  and  nestled  her  noble 
head  against  my  bosom,  and  called  me  her  own  sweet  brother, 
and  begged  me  not  to  scold  her,  for  that  she  loved  him,  loved 
him,  loved  him.  That  Erne's  name  was  written  on  her  heart ; 
but  thjtt  he  should  never,  never  know  it  on  this  side  of  the 
grave ;  for  she  would  devote  herself  to  Joe,  and  be  his  sister  and 
friend  to  death ;  and  that  she  was  so  sorry  for  what  she  had  said. 

What  could  I  do  ?  Wliat  I  did,  I  suppose.  Soothe  her,  quiet 
her,  and  tell  her  I  had  been  in  the  wrong  (which  was  not  alto- 
gt'ther  true).  That  is  what  I  did,  however;  and  so  I  had  said 
the  first  and  last  harsh  word  to  her.  It  cannot  be  recalled,  but 
there  is  some  comfort  in  thinking  that  it  was  the  first  and  the 
last. 


CHAPTER    XXVII. 

JAMES  BURTON'S  STORY:    THE    GHOST   SHOWS  A  LIGHT  FOR 

THE  FIRST   TIME. 

The  night  we  went  to  the  play,  it  was  arranged  that  Joe,  be- 
cause of  his  lameness,  should  start  first ;  and  I  was  to  stay  behind, 
to  finish  some  work.  It  therefore  happened  that  I  found  myself 
hurrying  through  the  small  streets  beyond  Westminster  Bridge, 
alone. 

I  am  going  to  relate  a  distressing  accident,  very  shortly,  for  the 
simple  reason  that,  if  I  had  not  witnessed  it,  I  should  have  missed 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  137 

making  a  singular  discovery  and  meeting  with  a  few  singular  ad- 
ventures. 

I  noticed  a  young  man,  of  my  own  rank  and  age,  rTcling  a  cart- 
horse just  in  front  of  me,  and  took  but  little  notice  of  him ;  not 
dreaming  how  very  important  his  every  look  would  be,  in  a  very 
ibw  minutes.  I  remembered  after,  that  he  seemed  a  merry,  gootl- 
humored  fellow,  and  was  whistling.  The  night  was  frosty,  and 
tlie  road  was  slippery  ;  his  horse  blundered  and  stumbled,  and 
threw  him,  whistling  as  he  was,  under  the  wheels  of  a  passing 
wagon.  The  next  moment  I  was  carrying  him  on  to  a  door-step, 
quite  dead  ;  shattered  beyond  recognition. 

I  cannot  tell  you  what  a  lamentable  affair  it  was.  I  did  what 
I  could,  —  I  helped  others,  and  was  beginning  to  congratulate 
myself  upon  my  self-possession,  when  I  found  that  a  very  singu 
lar  effect  was  produced  on  myself.  I  was  giving  my  name  and 
address  to  a  policeman,  when  I  felt  something  coming  too  quickly 
to  be  stopped,  and  burst  into  a  wild  tempest  of  tears,  —  such  a 
tempest  that  I  could  not  stay  the  course  of  it  for  a  time,  but  had 
to  give  it  way,  gust  after  gust,  until  they  grew  fainter,  and  died 
away  into  an  occasional  stormy  sob.  Then  I  went  on  to  the 
theatre,  thinking,  poor  fool  as  I  was,  that  I  might  forget  the  real 
terrible  tragedy  I  had  just  witnessed  by  throwing  myself  head- 
long into  a  sea  of  fantastic  balderdash. 

I  found  Joe,  and,  when  the  door  was  opened,  we  fought  our 
way  into  a  good  place.  The  instant  we  got  settled,  Joe  asked 
me  what  was  the  matter,  and  I  told  him  that  I  had  seen  a  fellow 
run  over.  He  said,  "  Poor  chap  ! "  but,  not  having  seen  it  hap- 
pen, thought  no  more  about  it,  but  settled  himself  down  to  enjoy 
his  evening. 

I  suppose  there  are  some  play-goers  still  alive  who  remember 
the  "  Harvest  Home."  It  belongs  to  the  Eocene,  or  at  latest  to 
the  early  JMiocene,  formation  of  plays,  —  probably,  to  be  correct, 
it  is  half-way  between  the  "  Stranger  "  and  the  "  Colleen  Bawn." 
There  was  a  dawning  of  the  "  sensation  "  style  in  it,  but  nothing 
very  tremendous.  O.  Smith  shot  the  first  comedy  gentleman 
stone-dead  (as  you  were  supposed  to  suppose,  if  you  had  n't 
known  better  all  the  time)  from  behind  a  stone  wall,  with  an 
air-gun  ;  and  the  first  lady  threw  herself  on  the  corpse,  and  was 
dragged  off  screaming,  in  a  snow-storm,  by  3Ir.  O.  Smitli,  her 
putative  papa.  Whereupon,  Mr.  Wright  came  on,  as  a  Cockney 
sportsman  dressed  like  a  Highlander,  having  lost  his  way,  and, 
as  far  as  I  can  remember,  found  the  body.  In  the  end,  Mr.  O. 
Smith  was  hung,  or,  on  the  principle,  says  Joe,  of  "•  Nee  coram 
populo,"  was  led  off  cursing  and  kicking ;  and  Mr.  AVright  was 
married  (or  was  going  to  be)  to  the  second  lady. 

That  was  the  sort  of  stuflf  that  Joe  and  I  used  to  laugh  and 


138  THE  HILLY ARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

cry  over  in  those  days.  We  had  seen  the  play  acted  at  the 
Adelphi,  and  were  most  anxious  to  compare  the  magnificent 
Milesian  Ifish  pronunciation  of  our  own  Miss  Brady,  with  the 
broken  English  of  Madame  Celeste.  It  all  fell  dead  on  me  that 
night.  Even  poor  old  Wright,  with  his  bare  legs  and  his  im- 
pudent chatter,  could  not  make  me  laugh.  The  image  of  what  I 
had  carried  up  and  set  on  the  door-step,  an  hour  before,  would 
not  leave  me.  That  a  merry,  harmless  lad  like  that  should  be 
struck  down  in  an  instant,  seemed  to  me  so  lamentable  and 
cruel.  I  could  think  of  nothing  else.  The  details  would  come 
before  me  so  persistently,  —  the  head  that  would  hang  ;  the  two 
low,  fallen  women,  who  kept  saying,  "  Poor  dear !  poor  dear 
lad  ! "  and  all  the  rest  of  it.  The  play  seemed  such  a  hideous 
silly  mockery  after  what  had  happened  that  I  could  bear  no 
more  of  it.     I  made  some  excuse  to  Joe,  and  I  went  out. 

The  squalor  and  noise  of  the  street  suited  my  mood  better  than 
the  gaudy  brightness  of  the  play-house :  and  the  bustling  reality 
of  the  crowd  soothed  me  for  a  time,  and  made  me  forget  the 
tragedy  of  the  evening.  This  crowd  of  noisy,  swarming,  ill-fed, 
ill-taught,  ill-housed  poor  folks  was,  after  all,  composed  of  my 
own  people,  —  of  men,  women,  and  lads  of  my  own  rank  in  life  ; 
of  people  whose  language  was  my  own,  whose  every  want  and  care 
I  was  acquainted  with ;  of  the  peojDle  among  whom  I  had  been  bred 
up,  and  whom  I  had  learnt  to  love.     1  was  at  home  among  them. 

The  other  day,  after  spending  years  in  a  higher  and  purer  at- 
mosphere, I  went  among  them  again,  just  to  see  whether  they 
were  the  same  to  me  as  in  old  times.  I  found  that  I  was  quite 
unchanged.  They  did  not  disgust  me  in  the  least.  I  felt,  when 
I  got  among  them  again,  that  I  was  at  home  once  more.  I  was 
pleased  to  find  that  I  had  not  developed  into  a  snob  ;  but  I  was 
sorry  to  find  that  they  distrusted  me,  in  my  good  clothes,  and 
would  have  none  of  me.  Knowing  them  as  I  did,  and  knowing 
how  they  talked  among  themselves,  I  could  see  that  they  talked  in 
a  different  language  in  the  presence  of  my  fine  clothes  and  watch- 
chain.  It  is  very  hard  for  a  gentleman  to  know  them ;  very 
nearly  impossible.     They  never  speak  to  him  quite  naturally. 

I  went  into  a  public-house,  where  I  heard  music,  and  got  my- 
self some  porter,  and  sat  down  on  a  bench  among  some  young 
men,  who  made  room  for  me.  The  musicians  played  some  dance- 
music,  —  a  waltz,  which  I  now  know  to  be  one  of  Strauss's ;  but 
it  sounded  to  me  like  the  lapping  of  the  tide  upon  the  mud-banks, 
and  the  moaning  of  tlie  wind  from  the  river  among  the  grave- 
stones in  the  old  church-yard. 

So,  thought-driven,  with  a  despondency  on  me  for  which  it  was 
difficult  to  account,  I  was  compelled  homewards.  From  street  to 
street,  all  low  and  dull,  to  the  bridge,  where  the  chill,  frosty  wind 


THE   HILLYARS  AND   THE   BURTONS.  139 

rustled  amonrr  the  scafToldinir  of  the  new  Houses  of  Parliament 
with  gliostly  siuhs.  And  so  I  parsed  westward,  througli  another 
labyriiUli  of  sciuulid  streets  ;  some  bright  with  Hamiiig  gas  and 
swarming  with  noisy  crowds ;  some  dark  and  dull,  with  only  a 
few  iigures  here  and  there,  some  of  which  lurked  away  before  the 
heavy  tramp  of  the  poHceman. 

As  I  passed  the  vast  dark  fa9ade  of  Chelsea  Hospital  the  clock 
struck  ten,  and  a  few  minutes  afterwards  I  came  on  tlie  broad  deso- 
late river,  at  the  east  end  of  Cheyne  "Walk.  The  frosty  wind  was 
moaning  among  the  trees,  and  the  desolate  wild  river  was  lapping 
and  swirhng  against  the  heads  of  the  barges  and  among  the  guard- 
piles,  which  stood  like  sentries  far  out,  stemming  the  ebbing  tide. 
Of  all  scenes  of  desolation  which  I  ever  witnessed,  give  me  the 
Thames  at  uijiht.  I  hurried  on  again,  with  the  strange  terrified 
humor  on  me  stron2;er  than  ever. 

There  was  a  ball  at  a  large  bow-windowed  house,  close  to  Don 
Saltero's,  and  I  stopped  to  listen  to  the  music.  There  were  some 
fiddles  and  a  piano,  played  evidently  by  skilled  professional  hands. 
Good  heavens  !  could  they  play  nothing  but  that  wild  waltz  of 
Strauss's,  which  I  had  heard  the  Germans  playing  in  the  public- 
house  ?  TVhy  should  handsome  young  gentlemen  and  beautiful 
girls  dance  to  a  tune  which  sweeps  in  such  strange,  melauchol}^ 
eddies  of  sound,  that  even  now  it  sets  me  thinking  of  the  winds 
which  wander  over  solitary  moonless  seas,  which  break  with  a 
far-heard  moan,  against  distant  capes,  in  an  unknown  land  at 
midnight  ? 

A  couple  came  from  the  rest  and  stood  in  the  window  together, 
behind  the  half-drawn  curtains :  and  I  could  see  them,  for  their 
heads  were  against  the  light.  He  was  a  gallant  youth,  with  a 
square  head ;  and  she  seemed  beautiful  too.  He  spoke  eagerly 
to  her,  but  she  never  looked  towards  him ;  he  seemed  to  speak 
more  eagerly  yet,  and  tried  to  take  her  hand ;  but  she  withdrew 
it,  and  he  slowly  le<"t  her  and  went  back  into  the  room ;  but  she 
remained,  and  1  saw  her  pulling  the  flowers  from  her  nosegay 
and  petulantly  throwing  them  on  the  carpet,  while  she  looked 
out  steadily  across  the  wild  sweeping  river,  hurrying  to  the  sea. 

So  on  I  went  again,  passing  swiftly  through  the  church-yard. 
In  a  few  moments  after,  I  had  turned  out  of  Church  Street  into 
our  own  row.  It  was  quite  quiet.  Our  great  house  rose  like  a 
black  wall  in  front  of  me ;  I  cast  my  eye  up  it  until  it  rested  on 
the  great  dormer-window  of  Reuben's  room,  —  the  ghost's  room, 
—  and,  good  heavens  I  there  was  a  liijht  there. 

It  was  gone  while  I  looked  at  it;  but  there  was  no  doubt  about 
it.  Either  Reuben  had  come  home,  or  else  it  was  the  ghost.  I 
went  in  at  once.  My  father  was  sitting  alone  in  the  kitchen, 
with  his  head  in  his  hands ;  I  looked  up  at  a  certain  hook  over 


140  THE    HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

the  dresser.     The  key  of  Eeuben's  room  was   hanging   there 
still. 

My  father  looked  up.  "  Jim,  my  old  chap,"  he  said,  "  I  'm  so 
glad  you  're  come.  Get  my  pipe,  and  come  and  sit  alongside. 
How  did  you  like  the  theayter,  old  man  ?  " 

As  I  looked  at  my  ftuher,  I  saw  something  was  the  matter.  I 
had  never  seen  the  dear,  noble  face  in  sorrow  before  ;  but  my  love 
told  me  at  once  that  sorrow  had  come.  I  waited  for  him  to  tell 
me  what  it  was,  I  had  perfect  confidence  in  him.  I  said  (in  the 
old  style,  for  though  I  had  been  trying  hard  to  talk  like  Joe  and 
Erne,  I  had  hitherto  made  a  njpss  of  it,  and  always  resorted  to 
the  vernacular  in  emergencies,  or  for  business  purposes),  "  I 
didn't  care  about  the  play  to-night.  I  saw  a  young  chap  run 
over,  and  that  upset  me  for  the  evening.  I  was  n't  going  to  spoil 
Joe's  fun ;  so  I  came  home  "  ("took  and  hooked  it"  in  the  origi- 
nal).    "  Reuben  is  not  come  back,  is  he  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  my  father ;  ''  he  ain't  come  back.  "Wliat  should  he 
be  come  back  for  ?  There  's  his  key  a-hanging  over  the  dresser. 
I  say,  old  man,  Mr.  Compton  's  been  here  ?  " 

"Has  anything  gone  wrong  about  the  patent?"  I  asked,  aghast. 

"  Not  gone^  old  man,  but  very  likely  to  go,  I  'm  afeard." 

"  How  is  that  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  The  invention  was  anticipated,  Mr.  Compton  is  afraid.  There 
was  a  patent  taken  out  for  it  before,  and  Mr.  Compton  is  afraid 
that  Marks  and  Cohen  have  bought  the  patentee's  interest  in  it ; 
in  which  case,  my  chance  ain't  worth  a  brass  farden." 

"  And  what  then  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Why,  I  'm  ruined,  old  boy,  body  and  bones.  The  savings  of 
twenty  happy  years  gone  in  a  day.  And  worse  than  that,  —  nigh 
a  couple  of  hundred  more,  as  far  as  I  can  make  out.  I  would  n't 
have  cared  —  I  would  n't  have  cared,"  said  my  father,  hurling  his 
])ipe  fiercely  into  the  fireplace ;  "  I  tell  you,  Jim,  I  wouldn't  have 
cared  —  "  he  said,  once  more,  with  a  heave  of  his  great  chest  and 
a  sob.     That  was  all  he  said,  but  I  understood  him. 

I  rose  to  the  situation.  One  of  the  proudest  recollections  of 
my  most  prosperous  and  lucky  career  is  the  way  I  rose  to  the 
situation  that  unhappy  night.  I  put  my  arm  on  his  shoulder,  and 
drew  his  grizzled  head  to  me,  and  said :  — 

"  Would  n't  have  cared  —  if  it  had  n't  been  for  what,  father  ?  " 

"  I  would  n't  have  cared,"  said  my  father,  "  if  the  disgrace  had 
fallen  on  me  alone." 

"  Has  any  one  been  a-talking  about  disgrace  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Not  yet,"  said  my  father. 

"  They  'd  better  not,"  I  answered.  "  Let  'em  come  to  me  and 
talk  about  disgrace.  I  '11  disgrace  'em.  And  ruin,  —  who  talks 
of  ruin?     How  can  the  best  smith  in  England  be  ruined;  they 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  141 

can't  take  his  trade  from  him,  can  they?     Let's  up  with  every- 
thinj:!:,  and  fjo  to  Australey." 

"  What?"  said  my  father,  hjoking  up. 

"  Go  to  Australey,"  I  said,  as  bohl  as  brass ;  "  tlie  country  as 
INIaster  Erne's  brother  came  from.  Why,  a  smith  is  a  gentleman 
there.     He 's  —  " 

"  Go  to  bed,  old  chap,"  said  my  father. 

"  Bed  or  no  bed,"  I  said,  "  is  neither  the  one  thing  nor  the 
other.  According  as  a  chap  thinks,  so  will  he  speak ;  that  is,  if 
he  acts  according,  which  is  reason.  My  sentiments  being  asked, 
I  gives  'em  free ;  and  there  you  are,  and  welcome,  with  many 
more,  and  thank  you  kindly ;  and  may  the  Lord  forgive  us  all 
our  transgressions."  (All  this  was  said  with  defiant  assertion ; 
for  I  saw  that,  by  the  mere  mention  of  the  word  Australia,  I  had 
brought  a  light  in  my  father's  face  which  was  not  there  before. 
In  my  nervous  eagerness  to  drive  the  nail  home,  I  made  the  above 
little  speech,  which  might  have  been  intended  to  mean  something 
tlien,  but  the  key  to  which  is  missing  now.) 

"  Take  and  go  to  bed,  I  tell  you,"  said  my  father  again ;  "  you 
and  your  Australeys !     I  'm  ashamed  on  you." 

"  Shame  took  and  whispered  in  his  ear,"  I  answered,  seeing  I 
was  somehow  doing  the  right  thing,  "  and  Old  Adam  and  Little 
Faith  tried  to  stop  his  going  on,  too,  whereas  I  speaks  out,  and 
ain't  for  stopping  nobody." 

My  father,  possibly  concluding  that  the  more  I  spoke  the  more 
I  should  involve  myself,  reiterated :  — 

"  Go  to  bed,  I  tell  you,  old  chap  ;  who  knows  but  what  you  're 
talking  sense  ?  I  don't  say  neither  the  one  thing  nor  the  other ; 
all  I  say  is,  go  to  bed." 

And  so  I  went :  to  bed,  and  to  sleep.  And,  after  some  un- 
known time  of  unconsciousness,  I  awoke  with  a  ghastly  horror 
upon  me. 

Joe  was  by  my  side,  but  I  did  not  wake  him.  I  was  very  care- 
ful not  to  do  that,  and  there  were  one  or  two  reasons  for  it. 

First  of  all,  I  saw  the  poor  lad  run  over  again  —  that  pale 
face,  those  teeth,  and  those  spasmodically  winking  eyelids  ;  and, 
while  he  was  still  in  my  arms,  I  came  round  the  corner  once 
more,  into  the  buildings,  and  saw  the  ghost's  light  gleam  out  of 
Reuben's  window.  And  then  Reuben  was  come  home,  and  in 
trouble  up  there.  And  then  it  was  Reuben  who  had  been  run 
over,  and  then  Reuben  had  to  sit  up  there  all  alone,  poor  lad, 
watching  the  body;  but,  however  the  phantasmagories  shifted 
themselves,  the  crowning  horror  c^  all  was  in  the  room  up  stairs, 
where  I  had  seen  the  liglit.  And  in  the  sheer  desperation  of  ter- 
ror I  rose  to  go  there,  refusing  to  awaken  Joe,  because  I  even 
then,  light-headed  as  I  was,  remembered  that  Reuben  would  not 
have  him  know  anything. 


142  THE  HILLY ARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

And  so,  in  a  state  of  cowardly  horror  at  I  knew  not  what  —  a 
state  of  mind  which  was  nearly  allied  to  the  most  desperate  cour- 
age —  I  arose  silently,  and,  in  my  trousers  and  shirt  only,  passed 
out  of  our  room  on  to  the  great  empty  staircase,  determined  to 
go  up  all  through  the  desolate  empty  house,  until  I  found  out  the 
mystery  which  I  knew  was  hid  aloft  in  the  ghostly  attic.  I 
would  penetrate  into  the  mystery  of  that  strange  light,  even 
though  I  died  of  terror. 

The  old  staircase  creaked  under  my  weight,  and  the  web- 
winged  things  which  flutter  about  the  ceilings  of  these  sort  of 
places  dashed  round  aloft  in  silent  wheeling  flight.  The  ghosts 
all  i^assed  on  before  me  in  a  body ;  and  I  was  glad  of  it,  for  I 
w^as  afraid  that  some  of  them  might  stand  politely  aside  in  a  cor- 
ner to  let  me  pass,  and  I  don't  think  I  could  have  stood  that. 
Yet  all  the  ghosts  passed  on,  except  a  solitary  one,  who  followed 
stealthily. 

This  following  ghost  was  the  most  terrible  ghost  of  all,  for  I 
could  n't  see  what  it  was  going  to  be  at.  I  thought  at  one  time 
that  I  would  stop  and  see  whether  it  would  stop  too ;  but  then 
again,  I  reflected,  what  a  terrible  thing  it  would  be  if  it  didn't, 
but  came  right  on. 

Once  in  my  terror  I  thought  of  crying  for  help,  and  raising  the 
neighborhood,  but  while  I  was  thinking  of  it  I  passed  a  staircase- 
window,  and  saw  that  I  was  already  high  above  the  neighbors' 
highest  chimneys,  and  that  I  might  shout  long  enough.  There 
was  no  retreat  now  without  passing  by  the  ghost,  which  was  fol- 
lowing ;  and  every  step  I  took  I  felt  a  growing  dislike  to  do 
tliat  —  without  the  kitchen  poker. 

For  it  was  a  clumsy  ghost,  and  knew  its  business  but  imper- 
fectly. No  properly  educated  ghost  would  knock  a  hard  metal  He 
substance  against  the  banisters  and  then  use  a  most  low  and  vul- 
gar expletive  immediately  afterwards.  I  was  getting  wonder- 
fully uneasy  about  this  ghost.  The  poker  was  such  a  handy  little 
poker ;  but  here  was  I,  and  there  was  the  poker,  and  so  there 
was  nothing  to  do  but  to  go  on. 

At  last  I  reached  Reuben's  room-door,  and  got  hold  of  the 
handle.  The  door  was  unlocked ;  and  I  threw  it  open,  to  see 
nothing  but  blank  darkness. 

I  held  my  breath,  and  felt  that  some  one  was  there.  Dread- 
ing the  man  who  was  behind  me,  I  desperately  sprang  forward 
towards  the  well-known  fireplace  to  get  hold  of  Beuhen^s  poker, 
if  I  should  have  the  luck.  Then  a  lanthorn  was  turned  full  blaze 
on  my  face.  I  sprang  towards  it,  with  the  intention  of  getting 
hold  of  the  man  who  held  it,  putting  it  out,  getting  possession  of 
it,  and  pounding  everything  human  I  met  with  black  and  blue, 
on  the  old  cockney  rule  that  "  a  solitary  man  is  worth  a  dozen  in 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  U3 

the  (lark,  becnuse  lie  can  hit  everybody,  and  everybody  else  is 
afraid  of  hittinc^  one  another  " ;  but,  before  I  could  reach  him,  I 
liad  a  cloth  thrown  over  my  head,  an  arm  round  my  throat,  tigiit- 
ening  every  moment,  and  in  less  than  a  minute  was  completely 
overpowered,  with  my  arms  tied  behind  me,  blindfolded,  with  a 
handkerchief  passed  through  my  mouth,  and  tied  behind,  having 
seen  no  one. 

I  felt  that  I  was  in  the  light,  and  that  people  were  looking  at 
me ;  at  last  some  one  spoke,  in  a  very  gentlemanly,  refined  voice 
I  thought,  and  said,  "  Who  the  deuse  is  it  ?  " 

"  It 's  the  young  smith ;  it 's  that  gallows  young  Burton,"  said 
another  voice  I  knew  too  terribly  well.  It  was  the  voice  of  the 
man  I  have  called  Bill  Sykes. 

Another  voice  said,  "  Let  us  beat  the  dog's  brains  out,  and  cut 
his  body  into  small  pieces  and  burn  it.  Curse  him ;  prying  into 
three  gentlemen's  private  affairs  like  this.  Let  me  have  his 
blood,  Bill.     Let  me  have  hold  of  him." 

I  knew  this  voice  well  enough.  It  was  Mr.  Pistol's.  I  was  n't 
much  afraid  of  him.  It  was  Sykes  I  was  afraid  of,  the  man  Avho 
had  me  by  the  collar ;  the  more  so,  because  I  saw,  by  poor  Pis- 
tol's asking  to  get  hold  of  me,  that  he  w\^nted  to  get  me  out  of 
Sykes's  hands ;  and  the  more  so  still,  because  I  knew  that  Pistol, 
in  his  terror  of  Sykes,  would  let  anything  happen.  Therefore, 
when  Sykes  said  to  Pistol,  "  Stand  back  and  lock  the  door,"  and 
when  I  felt  his  hand  tighten  on  my  collar,  I  began  to  say  the 
Lord's  Prayer  as  fast  as  ever  I  could. 

Pistol  only  said,  "  Bill,  hold  hard  " ;  but  his  feeble  protest  was 
drowned  in  the  strangest  sound  I  ever  heard.  The  unknown  man 
with  the  gentlemanly  voice  broke  out  with  a  fierce,  snapping, 
snarling  objurgation,  which  took  myself  and  another  listener  ut- 
terly by  surprise. 

"  Sykes,  you  blood-thirsty,  clumsy  hound,  drop  that  life-pre- 
server or  you  are  a  dead  man.  It  is  only  by  the  cowardly  idiocy 
of  that  fellow  Pistol  there  that  you  are  in  this  thing  at  all,  you 
low  brute,  —  the  best  thing  you  were  ever  in  in  your  life,  worth 
five  hundred  of  your  stupid  burglaries.  Leave  that  boy  alone, 
you  worthless  dog." 

I  felt  Sykes's  hand  relax,  but  the  bully  did  not  yield. 

"  You  showing  fight,  you  sneaking,  long-nosed  cur  !  Shut  up, 
or  I  '11  pound  you  into  a  jelly." 

"  Will  you  ? "  said  the  gentlemanly  man,  almost  in  a  scream 
of  rage.  "  Me !  you  dog.  Me !  with  this  knife  in  my  hand. 
You  ignorant  idiot,  with  your  clumsy  cudgels.  Learn  the  use  of 
this,  and  then  you  '11  be  my  equal ;  just  as  sure  as  I  'm  your  mas- 
ter. You  'd  better  go  and  tickle  a  black  snake  on  the  nose  in 
December  than  come  near  me  with  this  in  my  hand.  Leave  that 
lad  alone.     I  won't  have  a  hair  of  his  head  touched." 


1-it  THE   HILLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS. 

The  bully  knew  the  fearful  advantage  which  the  use  of  the 
knife  frives,  too  well ;  he  came  down  a  little.     He  said  only : 

"  What  for  ?  " 

"  Because  I  choose  it.  How  could  such  as  you  understand  if  I 
told  you  why  ?  "  said  the  gentlemanly  man,  with  a  fiercer  snarl 
than  ever.  "  I  am  a  roijue  of  Ions:  standino;,  but  I  have  seen  bet- 
ter  things,  you  Sykes.  I  hate  you  and  your  class.  Hell  has  be- 
gun with  me  in  this  world,  with  all  its  torment  and  its  loathing ; 
and  the  most  terrible  part  of  my  torment  is,  that  those  I  loved 
faithfully  have  cast  me  off,  and  that  I  have  to  herd  with  such 
hounds  as  you.  But  I  will  be  revenged  on  one,  until  I  bring  him 
to  reason ;  and  while  I  carry  a  knife,  I  will  express  my  loathing 
and  scorn  for  such  curs  as  you.  Come  hither,  lad.  Do  you  care 
for  your  cousin  Reuben  ?  " 

As  he  said  this  he  moved  the  handkerchief  from  my  mouth, 
and  I  answered,  "  Yes,  I  cared  very  much  for  my  cousin." 

"  We  are  a  parcel  of  thieves  and  worse,  my  lad,  who  have  got 
possession  of  the  room  he  rents.  He  knows  us,  my  boy,  and  has 
been  seen  in  our  company.  If  you  say  one  word  about  to-night's 
work,  your  cousin  Reuben  will  be  transported  as  an  accomplice 
of  ours.  So  you  see  how  fatal  the  consequences  of  your  speak- 
ing would  be.  We  shall  be  gone  to-morrow,  may  be.  You  'd 
best  say  nothing,  for  your  cousin's  sake." 

I  said  that  I  would  not  say  one  word. 

"  If  you  do,"  said  Pistol,  "  I  '11  have  your  bingy  ;  strike  me  as 
blind  as  a  morepork  if  I  don 't  have  your  bingy ! "  (by  which 
speech  I  know,  through  the  light  of  later  experience,  that  Mr. 
Pistol  had  been  transported). 

"  Shut  up,  fool,"  said  the  gentlemanly  man.  "  Sykes,  I  am 
going  to  let  this  young  'un  go." 

"  I  '11  cut  his  throat  if  he  blows,"  said  blustering  Bill.  "  He 
knows  me.  He  knows  he  '11  never  be  safe  if  he  does.  Swear 
him.  Do  you  wish  you  may  die  if  you  peach,  you  cursed  young 
toad?" 

"You  clumsy  fool,"  said  the  gentlemanly  man;  "put  him  on 
his  honor,  I  tell  you.  You  '11  have  his  monkey  up  directly. 
You  're  not  going  to  say  a  word,  for  your  cousin's  sake  ;  are  you, 
Jim  ?  " 

I  repeated  that  I  would  not  say  one  single  word. 

"Then  come  outside  here,"  said  the  gentlemanly  man.  And 
so  he  led  me  to  the  door,  ])ulled  the  cloth  from  my  eyes,  shut  me 
out  on  the  landing,  and  locked  the  door  after.  When  I  found 
myself  free  on  the  landing,  I  am  pleased  to  remember  that  the 
first  thing  I  did  was  to  offer  up  a  short  thanksgiving  :  that  it  was 
only  the  grace  after  meat  which  J  repeated  in  my  haste  is  no 
matter,  —  the  intention  was  the  same. 


THE  HILLYAKS  AND   TIIK   BURTONS.  145 

Now  tlie  steed  was  stolen  T  sliut  tlie  stable-door,  and  went 
down  stiiirs  with  the  most  elaborate  caution,  in  anticipation  of 
another  ambuscade.  I  was  a  long  time  in  reaching  my  bedroom. 
At  last  I  reached  it.  One  of  the  pleasantest  moments  in  my  life 
was  when  I  slipped  into  bed,  and  heard  my  father  and  mother 
snoring  in  the  next  room,  produchig  between  them  such  a  perfect 
imitation  of  a  rusty  mine-pump,  as  would  have  made  their  fortunes 
on  the  '•  boards." 

One  comfort  was  that  Joe  had  not  missed  me.  lie  was  lying 
just  as  I  left  him.  He  had  evidently  been  fast  asleep  all  the 
time. 

Had  he  ?  The  moment  I  was  comfortably  settled  he  spoke. 
He  said,  "  It  was  touch  and  go  for  that  devil  Sykes,  old  Jim." 

"  What  do  you  mean,  Joe  ?  "  I  asked,  in  my  astonishment. 

"  Mean ! "  said  Joe,  laughing ;  "  why,  that  I  was  standing  in 
the  dark  behind  him  with  our  bedroom  poker,  and  if  he  had 
raised  his  hand  six  inches  higher,  I  'd  have  had  him  down  like  a 
dead  dog,  and  Pistol  after  him.  He  'd  have  gone  down  at  once, 
if  I  had  n't  seen  the  knife  in  the  other  one's  hand.  When  he 
turned  up  trumps,  I  let  things  be." 

"Then  it  was  you  who  followed  me  up  stairs?" 

"  So  it  was,  Jim.  I  've  had  my  suspicions  about  that  room  ; 
and,  when  you  began  to  cry  out  in  your  sleep  about  Reuben 
watcliing  corp-es  up  there,  and  when  you  got  out  and  went  up,  I 
followed  you.  I  thought  you  w^ere  sleep-walking,  and  so  did  n't 
dare  to  wake  you.  I  've  followed  you  into  many  tights,  my  old 
boy,  and  I  was  n't  going  to  let  you  go  up  there  alone." 

''  I  think  you  would  follow  me  to  death,  Joe." 

"  I  think  I  would."  he  said.  "  They  had  nothing  but  one  dai-k- 
lanthorn,  or  T  should  have  had  to  play  the  dickens.  I  wonder 
what  they  are  doing  there  ?  I  think  they  are  only  hiding.  AVe 
must  speak  to  Rube,  poor  lad.  It  is  very  hard  on  him.  Poor, 
faithful,  aiFectionate  fellow  !  I  wish  he  had  more  determination ; 
I  wish  he  could  say  No.     But  what  can  he  do  "i  " 

"  I  '11  tell  you  what,"  I  said.  "  I  have  a  suspicion.  I  believe 
that  the  man  who  came  to  my  assistance  with  his  knife  was  the 
same  man  I  saw  in  Lawrence  Street,  that  I  told  you  of,  when 
Rube  was  among  the  whole  gang." 

Joe  rose  up  in  bed,  and  said,  in  accents  of  profound  astonish- 
ment, "  Why,  do  you  mean  to  say  you  don't  see  how  things 
stand ! " 

I  said,  "  No ;  but  that  long-nosed  fellow  seemed  to  have  some 
kind  of  influence  with  Rube." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  said  Joe,  "  that  you  have  n't  made  out 
this  mucli :  That  hook-nosed  man  is  Reuben's  father,  our  cousin, 
Samuel  Burton,  come  home  from  his  transportation,  having  fol- 
7  J 


146  THE  HILLYARS   AND  TUE  BURTONS. 

lowed,  as  I  strongly  suspect,  Mr.  George  Ilillyar  ?  Did  n't  you 
make  that  out  ?  " 

I  was  too  much  dumb-foundered  to  speak. 

"  You  old  stupid,  you  old  hammersmith.  /  thought  you  had 
made  it  all  out,  and  would  speak  even  to  me,  Reuben  having  dis- 
trusted me.  I  have  watched  the  man  days  and  days,  till  I  made 
it  out.  Don't  you  see  how  doubly  it  tongue-ties  you  and  me,  the 
only  two  who  know  it  ?  " 

1  did  see  that,  certainly.  But  at  this  moment  my  father 
dreamt  of  the  devil,  and  had  to  be  punched  awake  by  my  moth- 
er, lest  he  should  pass  into  that  fourth  and  dangerous  state  of 
mesmeric  coma,  as  did  the  young  lady  spoken  of  by  that  acute 

scientific   reasoner,  Dr.   G .     In  which    case,  as    every  one 

ought  to  know,  it  would  have  become  necessary  to  mesmerise 
some  one  else,  nineteen  to  the  dozen,  to  fetch  him  back  again, 
before  he  got  into  the  fifth  state,  which  is  the  dense  and  all.  At 
all  events,  my  father  awoke,  and  accused  my  mother  on  the  spot 
of  having  had  the  nightmare,  in  consequence  of  having  taken  too 
much  vinegar  with  her  trotters  at  supper :  which  was  all  she  got 
for  her  pains.     But,  he  being  awake,  Joe  and  I  talked  no  more. 


CHAPTER    XXVIII. 

AFFAIRS  AT   STANLAKE. 

Gertt  did  n't  like  England ;  she  could  n't  possibly  conceive 
why  the  people  in  England  did  n't  all  go  and  live  in  Australia. 
James  wanted  to  get  as  many  of  them  as  would  come,  over  to 
Cooksland  free  of  expense,  and  when  they  came  they  always 
liked  it,  —  in  the  end,  you  would  understand  her  to  mean  ;  for  at 
first  they  felt  strange,  and  were.  Lord  bless  you,  more  particular 
over  their  rations  than  any  corn-stalk  cockatoo  who  might  have 
treed  his  section  on  the  burst,  and  come  back  to  the  shed :  or 
than  any  real  stringy  back  hand  ever  thought  of  being.  She 
did  n't  see  why  they  should  not  all  move  over  together.  It 
would  n't  do  to  leave  the  Queen  behind ;  but  she  might  get  to 
think  better  of  it  as  soon  as  she  saw  how  much  superior  Australia 
was  to  England.  And  so  she  used  to  twitter  on  to  old  Sir 
George  Hillyar,  never  allowing  for  the  fact  that,  when  most  con- 
fidential and  affectionate  with  him,  she  was  apt  (as  above)  to 
ramble  off  into  fields  of  utterly  incomprehensible  slang,  and  to 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  147 

leave  his  close-cropped  gray  luiir  standing  on  end  witli  amaze- 
ment. 

Gerty  didn't  like  Stanlake.  "Not  very  much,  papa,"  slie 
would  say  to  Sir  George,  taking  his  liand  in  hers  ;  "  you  ain't 
oflended,  are  you  ?  because  I  must  n't  offend  you,  or  else  James 
will  be  angry  with  me  wlien  I  go  back  home,  and  say  it  is  all  my 
fault.  I  love  you,  but  I  don't  like  Stanlake.  George  knows  you 
are  going  to  leave  it  to  him,  because  Mr.  Compton  advised  him 
to  cut  down  tlie  east  belt.  But  I  don't  like  it.  It 's  so  cold  to 
your  bones." 

"  What  do  you  like,  my  dear  little  white  rosebud?"  Sir  George 
said  one  day,  laughing. 

"  Why,"  she  answered,  "  let  me  see.  I  like  you  (very  much 
indeed,  —  you  don't  know  how  much)  ;  and  I  like  George  more 
than  you  ;  and  I  like  Erne  more  than  you,  but  not  so  much  as 
George.  And  I  like  Reuben  the  waterman,  and  his  cousin  the 
blacksmith,  Jim,  —  I  mean,  you  know,  Erne's  friend,  —  the  tall 
lad  with  the  large  brown  eyes,  who  sat  under  the  tomb  that  first 
Sunday  when  the  pew-opener  poked  the  umbrella  into  her  hus- 
band's eye,  because  the  mad  woman  caught  spiders  in  her  prayers 
(you  did  n't  hear  of  that,  though).  I  like  him,  and  I  like  his 
great  big  sister ;  for,  although  her  hands  are  very  red,  she  has  a 
gentle  face,  and  her  voice  is  like  James's  when  he  is  playing  with 
baby.  I  like  all  these;  so  I  can't  be  so  hard  to  please  as  you 
want  to  make  out,  you  cruel  tyrant." 

"  I  don't  mean  what  people  do  you  like,"  said  Sir  George, 
gently,  "  for  I  believe  you  love  every  one  you  come  near,  just  as 
every  one  loves  you.  I  mean,  what  do  you  like  to  do  best  ? 
What  can  I  do  to  amuse  you,  to  make  the  time  go  less  slowly  ?  " 

"  I  like  the  fire  best,"  said  Gerty.  "  I  like  to  sit  before  the 
fire,  and  look  at  the  coals." 

"  Why  ?  " 

"  It  warms  my  poor  bones,"  said  Gerty.  "  And  I  see  things 
there." 

''Tell  me  what  Gerty,  —  tell  me  what.  Do  you  ever  see  a 
a  little  white  sea-swallow  that  has  winged  its  way,  such  a  weary 
way,  over  the  heaving  sea  to  sing  to  an  old  man  and  soften  his 
heart  ?  " 

"No,"  said  Gerty,  simply,  "I  don't  ever  remember  to  have 
seen  that.  I  see  black  fellows,  and  ships,  and  balls,  and  things 
of  that  kind.  I  saw  the  quartz  range  beyond  Neville's-Gap  once 
yesterday,  wdiere  we  go  to  get  flowers.  My  word,  what  a  rage 
poor  mamma  was  in  !  " 

"About  what?"  asked  Sir  George,  much  amused.  "About 
the  ships,  or  the  black  fellows?" 

"About  my  book-muslin  frock,  you  foolish  thing,  and  my  com- 


148  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

plexion  ;  there  was  n't  a  bit  of  it  as  big  as  your  hand  that  was  n't 
torn.  And  there  were  bhick  fellows  in  this  story,  too,  —  for, 
when  I  found  I  was  buslied,  I  had  to  go  and  look  after  them  to 
take  me  home ;  and  I  followed  the  cattle-tracks  till  I  came  to 
the  great  Billeboiig  where  they  were  fisliihg,  and  I  made  them 
up  stick  and  take  me  home.  Lord !  you  should  have  seen  me 
coming  in  state  over  the  paddock  with  my  hair  down,  and  five- 
and-forty  black  fellows,  lobros,  picanninies  and  all,  at  my  heels. 
You  would  have  laughed." 

"  I  think  I  should,"  said  Sir  Georixe. 

"  Mamma  did  'nt,"  said  Gerty.  "  I  was  as  brown  as  you  ;  and 
that  book-muslin  cost  a  deal  of  money.  She  made  such  a  fu.^s 
about  it  before  the  black  fellows,  that  they  went  back  and 
tracked  me  to  the  Grevillea  Scrub,  to  get  the  shreds  of  it  which 
were  left  on  the  thorns,  thinking  they  were  some  priceless  tissue. 
They  kept  bringing  pieces  of  it  as  long  as  your  little  finger,  or 
smaller,  to  my  mother  ever  so  long,  and  wanting  her  to  give 
them  brandy  and  tobacco  for  them.     She  was  angry." 

"  She  must  have  had  good  cause,  with  six  daughters  like  you 
to  take  care  of." 

"  Yes.  You  see  she  had  staked  her  reputation  that  we  should 
marry  better  than  the  seven  Brown  girls.  And  what  with  poor 
papa  going  off  at  the  Prince  of  Wales,  with  the  gout  getting  into 
his  stomach,  and  tallow  down  to  three-pence,  and  all  the  hands  on 
the  burst  at  once,  it  was  enough  to  make  her  anxious,  was  n't  it  ?  " 

"  /  should  think  so,"  Sir  George  would  reply.  And  then  she 
would  go  chirrupping  on  again ;  and  George  would  sit  watching 
them  from  behind  his  book. 

There  was  no  doubt  whatever  that  silly  Gerty  was  making 
extraordinary  way  with  the  old  man.  Her  amazing  beauty,  her 
gentleness,  and  her  simplicity  won  the  old  man  completely  ;  while 
her  j^iquant  conversation  as  above  (it  was  piquant  enough  from 
her  mouth,  though  it  may  be  dull  from  this  pen),  amused  him 
immensely.  AVlienever  she  was  utterly,  unintelligibly,  colonial 
in  her  language,  Sir  George  would  make  her  explain  herself, 
and  this  would  cause  her  to  use  other  colonialisms  worse  than 
the  first,  to  his  intense  delight.  She  was  winning  on  the  old 
man  day  by  day,  and  George  saw  it  with  hope. 

Ulie  old  man  would  sit  hours  with  her  now.  They  neither 
bored  the  other.  Gerty  loved  talking,  and  he  loved  listening  to 
her  strange  prattle.  Sir  George  grew  sensibly  more  free  with 
and  kind  to  his  son  ;  and  the  odd  eight  thousand  a  year,  —  which 
Secretary  Oxtou  had  encouraged  him  to  go  to  London  and  seek, 
—  seemed  nearer  to  realization  day  by  day.  Old  Compton,  the 
lawyer,  used  to  come  often,  as  his  wont  was ;  and,  as  he  saw  Sir 
George  and  Gerty  together  so  much,  he  took  the  trouble  to  watch 


THE   IIILLYARS  AND  THE   BURTONS.  149 

them,  and  as  he  watched  them  he  said,  "  A  new  will !  —  a  new 
will !    My  young  friend  Erne  will  not  be  so  rich  as  I  thought." 

George  watched  them  too,  with  hope,  —  hoj)e  sometimes  alter- 
nated with  despair.  Sir  George  would  be  sitting  beside  Gerty 
absorbed  in  a  kind  of  pitying  admiration  of  her  for  an  hour  or 
more,  when  in  would  come  Krne,  who  loved  his  sister-in-law,  and 
loved  to  hear  her  talk  in  her  strange  naive  way,  and  wordd  stand 
against  his  father's  chair  on  the  other  side.  And  then  George 
would  see  the  old  man's  right  hand  withdrawn  from  the  arm  of 
Gerty's  chair,  and  his  left  go  wandering  up  to  smooth  down  the 
clustering  brown  curls,  which  hung  on  Erne's  head  like  a  gar- 
land. 

Then  George  would  set  his  teeth  and  curse  Erne  silently  in 
his  heart,  for  his  hatred  of  him  grew  stronger  day  by  day.  lie 
knew  that  Erne  was  utterly  simple  and  undesigning;  that  he 
loved  Gerty,  —  nay,  that  he  loved  him,  George  himself;  but  he 
would  not  know  it.  He  fed  his  heart  in  secret  denunciations 
of  his  brother.  He  let  the  devil  in ;  and,  to  himself  and  in 
private,  he  cursed  his  brother  for  a  designing  young  villain,  know- 
ing that  he  was  lying  all  the  time.  The  story  of  Cain  and  Abel 
is  a  very  old  one.     AVhere  were  James  and  Aggy  now  ? 

People  called  on  Gerty.  The  Naldei-s  called ;  but  Gerty  was 
looking  out  of  window,  and  saw  them  as  they  drove  up,  and 
was  n't  at  home.  She  would  die  sooner  than  be  at  home  when 
that  artful  bold  Yankee  woman  had  the  audacity  to  call  and 
hunt  up  her  husband,  —  much  sooner  die,  for  then  they  would 
be  sorry  for  her,  and  would  not  despise  her.  She  had  sorne  spirit 
left,  she  thanked  Heaven,  though  the  cold  had  got  into  her  bones. 
Nevertheless,  she  looked  from  behind  the  curtain  as  they  drove 
away,  and  saw  that  Mrs.  Nalder  had  been  dressed  by  a  French- 
woman, and  looked  horridly  handsome  and  amiable ;  and  that 
Nalder  had  mounted  a  tall  white  hat  on  to  his  honest  head,  and 
wore  what  he  would  have  called  a  white  vest  and  black  pants, 
although  it  was  only  half-past  two  in  the  afternoon. 

Then,  another  time,  some  other  horrid  people  called.  She 
could  n't  see  who  they  were,  but  was  sure  they  were  horrid  and 
she  was  n't  at  home.  But  she  heard  a  loud  voice  in  the  hall  say, 
"  Sure,  then,  Phayley,  we  '11  wait  in  the  parlor  till  she  come  " ; 
and  then,  with  a  little  cry  of  joy,  she  ran  out  of  the  drawing- 
room,  and  the  next  moment  had  buried  her  lovely  head  in  the 
capacious  bosom  of  Miss  Le-bia  Burke. 

The  good  Irishwoman  half  laughed  and  half  cried  over  her ; 
at  one  time  holding  her  at  arm's  length  to  get  a  good  look  at  her, 
and  the  next  hugging  her  again,  like  a  dear  old  lunatic  as  she 
was ;  while  Mr.  rhelim  O'Brien  (the  leader  of  the  Opposition, 
James  Oxton's  deadly  enemy)  stood  looking  on,  with  a  smile  of 


150  THE  IIILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

infinite  contentment  on  his  handsome  face.  It  appeared  that  he 
and  liis  cousin,  Miss  Burke,  were  to  be  in  London  for  some  time 
on  "  bhisnuss,"  and  they  could  meet  again  often.  Lesbia  brought 
all  kinds  of  tender  loves  from  half  the  colony ;  and,  more,  it 
was  this  battered  old  Irishwoman  who  had  gone  out  of  lier  way 
to  Neville's  Gap,  that  she  might  visit  the  quartz  ranges,  and 
bring  Gei'ty  a  great  nosegay  of  wild  flowers ;  and  here  they  were 
in  a  bandbox,  triumphantly.  They  were  all  withered  and  dead, 
—  no  more  like  their  former  selves,  than  was  Lesbia  Burke  to 
the  beauty  of  thirty  years  before  :  but  some  of  tlie  aromatic  ones 
kept  their  scent  still,  —  the  dear  old  bush  scent,  —  speaking  of 
})eaceful  sunny  summer  days  among  the  hot  silent  forests :  and 
Lesbia's  heart  was  as  true  and  as  loving  now  as  it  was  when  she 
learnt  her  first  prayer  at  her  mother's  knee. 

Gerty  did  not  chirrup  much  to  Sir  George  that  night,  but  sat 
back  in  her  easy-chair,  with  the  faded  flowers  on  her  lap,  tying 
them  u^j  into  various  bunches  like  a  child,  and  sometimes  untying 
them  and  altering  them.  Once  she  looked  up  and  asked  him 
whether  he  did  not  wonder  why  she  was  doing  this,  and  he  said 
«  Yes." 

"  I  am  calling  up  the  different  holidays  I  have  had,  and  am 
making  up  a  boquet  for  each  one,  of  the  flowers  I  remember  best 
on  those  days,  in  order  that  you  and  George  may  put  them  in 
my  coffin.  I  should  like  this  bunch  of  silver  wattle  to  lie  on  my 
heart,  because  they  grow  thick  in  the  paddocks  at  Barker's  Sta- 
tion, where  George  came  and  made  love  to  me." 

"  You  must  not  talk  about  coffins,  my  love,"  said  Sir  George. 
"  Try  cradles,  hey  ?  that  is  more  to  the  purpose." 

"  It  may  be  either,"  said  Gerty,  rising  wearily.  "  I  think  I 
will  go  to  bed.  I  think  you  had  better  send  for  Aggy ;  she  is  at 
the  Bend.  She  will  be  here  in  an  hour.  I  wish  you  could  send 
for  her." 

Then  the  poor  little  woman  looked  wildly  round  the  room  and 
saw  where  she  was  ;  and,  as  she  realized  the  fact  that  her  sister 
was  sixteen  thousand  miles  away,  she  gave  a  weary  little  moan, 
which  went  to  Sir  George's  heart. 

"  She  is  too  far  to  send  for,  my  love,"  he  said,  kindly.  "  I 
wish  she  were  liere." 

"  Stay,"  said  Gerty.  "  Tell  me,  dear  old  papa,  was  Lesbia 
Burke  here  to-day,  or  am  I  dreaming  again  ?  I  know  she  was. 
These  are  tlie  flowers  she  brought  me.  George  !  George  !  send 
for  old  Lesbia !  " 

Lesbia  Burke  was  sent  for,  and  we  need  not  insult  your  judg- 
ment by  telling  you  that  she  came  raging  off  instantly  to  the  as- 
sistance of  the  sweet  little  bush  flower.  She  was  naturally  a 
loud  woman,  and  was  rather  louder  than  usual  on  her  journey  in 


THE  IIILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  151 

consequence  of  her  impatience.  But  the  moment  she  entered 
Stanlake  doors,  she,  with  the  wonderful  adaptive  power  of  her 
nation,  became  transformed  into  a  cahu,  dexterous,  matronly 
lady,  with  a  commanding  power  expressed  in  every  word  and 
attitude.  She  took  possession  of  the  house  and  ruled  it.  Sir 
George  Hillyar  had  an  eye  for  female  beauty,  but  he  told  George 
that  he  had  never  seen  anything  like  Lesbia  Burke's  poses  be- 
fore. When  she  swept  into  the  library,  at  two  o'clock  in  the 
morning,  with  the  lighted  candle  close  against  her  stern-marked 
face,  and  announced  the  event  to  them,  both  of  them  started. 
"  The  Siddons,  as  Lady  Macbeth,  would  have  hidden  her  head," 
said  Sir  George.     She  certainly  was  a  terribly  beautiful  woman. 

It  was  she  who  put  the  baby  into  bed  with  Gerty  when  the 
doctor  gave  leave,  and  who,  when  she  heard  Gerty's  strange 
little  croon  of  delighted  wonder,  fell  on  the  astonished  doctor  and 
baronet's  neck,  and  called  him  an  "  ould  darlin'." 

''  Good  heavens  ! "  said  the  precise  old  gentleman  ;  "  I  hope  no 
one  saw  her.  What  would  Lady  Savine  say  ?  You  never  know 
what  these  Irish  people  will  be  at  next." 


CHAPTER    XXIX. 

JAMES  BURTON'S  STORY:    THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE  BAD  TIMES. 

"  The  Simultaneity  of  certain  Crises  in  Human  Thought,  more 
especially  relating  to  the  Results  of  Investigation  into  Mechanical 
Agents,"  would  form  a  capital  title  for  a  book,  as  yet  to  be  writ- 
ten. As  good  a  title  as  could  be  found  (if  you  don't  mind  a  little 
American,  and  follow  Sir  Walter  Scott's  doctrine  about  the  title 
of  books),  because  no  one  could  by  any  possibiHty  gather  from 
it  what  the  dense  the  book  was  about,  until  they  had  read  it. 

The  writer  of  this  book  would  have  to  take  notice  that,  for  the 
last  hundred  years  (say),  intelligence  has  been  so  rapidly  circu- 
lated, that  the  foremost  thinkers  in  all  civilized  countries  are 
at  v/ork  for  the  same  end  at  one  and  the  same  time.  He 
would  have  to  point  out  as  examples  (I  merely  sketch  his  work 
out  for  him)  the  simultaneous  invention  of  steamboats  on  the 
Clyde  and  in  New  York  ;  the  nearly  simultaneous  invention  of 
the  Electric  Telegraph  in  P^ngland  and  in  America  (though  Cook 
and  Wheatstone  were  clicking  messages  to  Camden  Town  three 
months  before  the  Yankees  got  to  work).  Again,  for  instance, 
the  discovery  of  the  planet  Neptune,  by  Adams  and  Leverrier ; 


152  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

and  last,  not  least,  the  synchronic  invention  of  the  centrifugal 
bucket-lifter  for  emptying  cesspool?,  —  claims  for  which  were 
sent  in  at  the  same  time  by  Ebenezer  Armstrong,  of  Salford,  and 
by  James  Burton,  of  Church  Place,  Chelsea. 

What  actually. ruined  us  was,  that  none  of  us  would  go  near 
the  machine  after  it  was  made,  and  that  it  had  to  be  worked  by 
third  parties.  In  his  enthusiasm  for  science,  I  believe  that  my 
flither  would  have  gone  and  superintended,  but  his  proposition 
was  met  by  fiat  rebellion  of  the  whole  family.  My  father  de- 
manded Avhether  or  no  he  was  master  in  his  own  house ;  wliereto 
Emma,  who  had  a  vast  deal  of  spirit  at  times,  replied  promptly, 
"  No,  don't  let  him  think  so.  Nothing  of  the  kind."  Emma's 
having  turned  Turk,  startled  my  father,  and  caused  him  to  recon- 
sider the  matter  of  his  being  master  in  his  own  house  in  another, 
and,  let  us  hope,  a  better  spirit;  for  he  only  sat  down  and 
troubled  me  for  his  pipe.  When  he  had  nearly  smoked  it,  he 
caught  my  eye,  and  said,  "  There  was  three  or  four  keys  wanted 
driving  home,  old  chap ;  and  a  washer  or  two  on  the  upper 
spindle  would  have  broke  no  one's  bones.  Nevertheless,  let  be  ; 
she  is  right  in  general.     It  '11  all  be  the  same  one  day." 

That  night  in  the  dark,  Joe,  who  was  at  home,  turned  to- 
wards me  and  said,  — 

"  Jim,  Erne  Hillyar  is  making  fine  gentlemen  and  ladies  of  us. 
We  ought  n't  to  have  stopped  his  going  to  see  the  machine  at 
work.  I  ought  to  have  gone,  and  you  ought  to  have  gone  also. 
We  are  getting  too  fine,  Jim ;  it  won't  do." 

I  ^uite  agreed,  now  I  had  time  to  think,  and  we  determined  to 
go  the  very  next  night. 

But  the  very  next  day  came  Erne,  looking  so  wonderfully 
handsome  and  so  exquisitely  clean,  that  going  to  Augusta  Court 
to  superintend  the  emptying  of  a  cesspool  became  absolutely  im- 
possible. Certainly,  what  Joe  said  was  true ;  Erne  was  making 
fine  gentlemen  of  us. 

That  night  the  gentlemen  who  had  charge  of  the  machine 
came  home  and  reported  it  broken.  It  had  to  be  repaired. 
To  satisfy  curiosity,  it  was  what  gold-miners  call  a  California 
pump  (which  is  an  old  Chinese  invention),  but  with  hol- 
low paddles,  nearly  like  buckets.  We  had  not  repaired  it  for 
three  weeks,  and,  by  the  time  we  had  got  it  to  work  again,  Arm- 
strong had  sent  in  his  claim,  and  we  had  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  the  delay  was  entirely  our  own  fault. 

Strange  to  say,  the  invention  had  been  registered  some  years, 
though,  from  want  of  practical  knowledge,  the  machine  had 
never  been  used.  The  former  patentee  instituted  legal  proceed- 
ings against  my  father  and  Armstrong.  Cohen  and  Marks,  the 
solicitors,  bought  up  Armstrong,  and  we  were  nearly  ruined. 


THE   IIILLYARS   AND   TIIH   BURTONS.  153 

So  ends;  the  liistory  of  my  fatlier's  inventions,  Tlie  other  day 
my  mother  asked  him  whether  lie  conhl  n't  contrive  a  sprin;^  to 
prevent  tlie  front  door  shinmiinui;.  He  declined  pointedly,  say- 
ing tliat  he  liad  liad  enongli  of  tliat  in  liis  life,  and  that  she 
ou^ht  to  be  ashamed  of  herself  for  talking  about  such  things. 

Nearly  ruined.  All  my  father's  savings,  all  Joe's  little  earn- 
ings, and  most  of  the  furniture,  just  saved  us.  We  could  keep 
the  house  over  our  heads,  for  we  had  taken  it  by  the  year,  and 
my  father  and  I  had  our  trade  and  our  strength  between  us  and 
ruin  still.  And,  as  is  very  often  the  case,  troubles  did  not  come 
singly.  There  was  anotlu'r  forge  established  at  the  bottom  of 
Church  Street,  and  our  business  grew  a  little  slack  (for  new 
brooms  sweep  clean).  We  knew  that  a  reaction  in  our  favor 
would  set  in  soon ;  but,  meanwhile,  our  capital  was  gone,  and  we 
had  to  depend  on  our  ready-money  receipts  for  the  men's  wages. 

Those  men's  wages  were  a  terrible  trouble.  I  have  had  a 
peaceful,  prosperous  life,  and  have  been  far  better  used  than  I 
deserve ;  for  the  trouble  about  these  men's  wages  is  the  worst 
trouble,  save  the  great  disaster  of  my  life,  which  I  have  ever 
known.  I  had  always  been  a  great  favorite  with  them,  and  used 
to  skylark  and  chaff  with  them ;  but  that  soon  was  altered  when 
the  curse  of  poverty  came  upon  us.  I  was  so  terribly  afraid  of 
offending  them.  Their  wages  must  be  paid  on  Saturday,  or 
they  would  go  to  the  other  forge.  We  had  often  to  give  trust, 
but  we  could  never  take  trust  from  them.  They  had  each 
eighteen  shillings  a  week  —  two  pounds  fourteen  ;  and  one  week 
we  only  took  took  three  pounds  seven  in  cash.  There  was  not 
a  stick  of  furniture,  or  a  watch,  or  a  spoon  left  which  could  go. 

Then  began  the  time  of  short  meals.  There  were  no  more 
"  jints  "  now.  The  "  kag-mag  and  skewer-pieces,"  &c.,  contempt- 
uously mentioned  by  my  father  to  Mr.  Compton,  were  now  luxu- 
ries, —  luxuries  which  were  not  indulged  in  every  day  by  any 
means.  The  first  necessity  was  bread  and  butter  for  the  "  kids," 
as  our  merry  Reuben,  absent  through  all  of  it,  used  to  call  them  ; 
the  supply  of  that  article  and  of  milk-and-water  was  kept  up  to 
the  last. 

If  the  contemplation  of  a  family  who  triumphantly  come  out 
strong,  in  the  middle  of  a  complication  of  troubles  and  difficulties, 
is  pleasing  to  any  of  my  readers,  I  should  like  him  to  have  seen 
the  Burton  family  in  their  troubles.  It  would  have  done  his  hon- 
est heart  good  to  have  seen  the  way  in  which  we  came  out,  when 
we  had  n't  really,  for  three  weeks,  enough,  or  near  enough,  to  eat. 

My  mother  took  to  singing  about  her  work.     She  could  n't  sing 

a  bit.     vShe  never  could  and  never  will ;  but  she  took  to  it  for  all 

that.     Some  people  take  to  playing  the  flute  who  can't  play  it  at 

all,  and  therefore  there  is  no  reason  why  my  mother  should  n't 

7* 


154  THE  niLLYARS  AND   THE  BURTONS. 

take  to  singing.  At  all  events,  she  did,  with  an  ostentatious  liglit- 
heartedness  which  we  could  all  see  through.  It  would  have  been 
better  if  she  had  known  any  tune ;  but  she  did  n't,  and  so  we  had 
to  do  without.  Her  singing,  however,  was  better  than  some  very- 
fine  singing  indeed,  for  it  produced  the  effect  intended ;  it  show^ed 
us  all  that  she  was  determined  to  act  as  pitch-pipe  in  the  family 
clioir. 

And  we  took  up  the  harmony  with  a  will,  I  warrant  you.  We 
had  always  been  an  easy-going,  gentle  sort  of  family ;  but  now 
our  benevolence  began  to  take  an  active  form  to  one  another, 
which  was  painful  then,  and  is  painful  now  when  I  look  back  on 
it.  Our  love  for  one  another  had  before  this  run  on  in  a  gentle, 
even  stream ;  now  it  had  got  on  the  rapids  and  become  passion- 
ate ;  for  the  same  unwhispered  terror  was  in  all  our  hearts,  — 
the  terror  lest,  in  the  troubles  and  evils  which  were  coming  thick 
upon  us,  we  might  break  up  the  old  family  bond  and  learn  to  care 
for  one  another  less,  —  the  ghastly  doubt  as  to  whether  or  no  our 
love  would  stand  the  test  of  poverty. 

Would  it  have  outlived  a  year's  disgraceful  weary  want,  or 
would  it  not  ?  That  is  a  terrible  question.  Our  troubles  came 
so  hard  and  fast,  that  that  test  was  never  applied  to  us.  The 
only  effect  our  troubles  had  on  us  vvas  to  knit  us  the  closer  to- 
gether ;  to  turn  what  had  been  mere  ox-like  contentment  in  one 
another's  society  into  a  heroic  devotion,  —  a  devotion  which  would 
have  defied  death.  And  the  one  person  who  led  us  through  our 
troubles,  —  the  one  person  who  gave  the  key-note  to  our  family 
symphony,  and  prevented  one  jarring  note  from  being  heard,  — 
the  person  who  turned  out  to  be  most  cheerful,  most  patient,  most 
gentle,  most  shifty,  and  most  wise  of  all  us, — was  no  other  than 
my  awkward,  tall,  hard-featured,  square-headed,  stupid  old  mother. 

Fools  would  liave  called  her  a  fool.  I  think  that,  in  the  times 
of  our  prosperity,  we  older  children  had  got  a  dim  notion  into  our 
heads  that  mother  was  not  quite  so  wise  as  we  were.  Three 
weeks  of  misfortune  cured  us  of  that  opinion,  for  ever  and  ever. 
That  she  was  the  most  affectionate  and  big-hearted  of  women  we 
had  always  known,  but  we  never  knew  what  a  wonderful  head 
she  had  till  this  time.  When  that  great  and  somewhat  sluggish 
brain  got  roused  into  activity  by  misfortune,  we  were  almost  awed 
by  her  calm,  gentle  wisdom.  When  better  times  came  again,  that 
brain  grew  sluggish  once  more ;  my  mother's  eyes  assumed  their 
old  calm,  dreamy  look,  and  she  again  became  capable  of  rambling 
in  her  line  of  argument,  and  of  being  puzzled  on  such  subjects  as 
potatoes.  But  we  never  forgot,  as  a  revelation,  the  shrewd,  calm 
woman  who  had  appeared  to  us  in  our  time  of  trouble,  had  ad- 
vised, and  managed,  and  suggested,  and  softened  affairs,  till  one 
was  ashamed  of  being  discontented.  We  never  forgot  what  my 
mother  could  be,  when  she  was  wanted. 


THE  IIILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  155 

Yesterday  I  was  sitting  at  lier  feet,  watching  the  sun  blaze  him- 
self to  death  behind  the  crags  of  Nicnicabarlah.  My  youngest 
boy  had  phiyed  himself  to  sleep  uj)on  her  kne«,  and  the  light  of 
the  dying  day  smote  upon  her  magnificent  face  as  I  turned  and 
looked  up  into  it.  And  then  I  saw  the  old,  old  look  there,  —  the 
look  of  perfect,  peaceful,  Iiappy  goodness,  —  and  I  blessed  God 
that  there  were  such  people  in  the  woj*ld;  and  then  in  my  mem- 
ory I  carried  that  dear  calm  face  back  through  all  the  turbulent 
old  times  at  Chelsea,  and  pondered  there  at  her  knee,  until  the 
darkness  of  the  summer  night  had  settled  down  on  the  peaceful 
Australian  forest. 

I  have  often  spoken  of  my  gentle  sister  Emma  hitherto.  I 
have  represented  her  to  you  as  a  kind,  sensible,  handsome  girl, 
with  an  opinion  of  her  own,  which  opinion  was  generally  correct, 
and  which  also  was  pretty  sure  to  be  given, —  in  short,  an  intense- 
ly loving  and  lovealiDle,  but  rather  uninteresting  person,  —  a  girl, 
I  should  have  said,  with  every  good  quality  except  energy.  I 
should  have  said,  up  to  this  time,  that  it  would  have  been  difficult 
to  make  Emma  take  a  sudden  resolution,  and  act  on  it  with  per- 
sistency and  courage.  She  was,  as  /should  have  said,  too  yield- 
ing, and  too  easily  persuaded,  ever  to  have  made  a  heroine,  in 
spite  of  her  energetically-given  opinions  on  all  subjects. 

Whether  I  was  right  or  not,  I  cannot  say;  for  she  may  have 
lacked  energy  hitherto,  but  she  did  not  now.  When  my  mother 
showed  that  remarkable  temporary  development  of  character 
which  followed  on  her  being  thoroughly  aroused  to  the  change 
in  our  position,  Emma  looked  on  her  once  or  twice  with  aflfection- 
ate  awe,  and  then  took  up  the  burden  of  my  mother's  song  and 
sung  it  busily  and  clearly  through  the  live-long  day.  She  sang 
the  same  old  song  as  my  mother  did,  though  in  clearer  tones,  — 
a  son2  of  ten  thousand  words  set  to  a  hundred  tunes.  She  sans 
of  cheerful  devoted  love,  the  notes  of  which,  though  vibrating  in 
a  Chelsea  fog,  make  the  air  clearer  than  the  sky  of  Naples. 

I  saw  the  change  in  her  quickly.  There  was  no  abrupt  state- 
ment of  opinions  now.  She  set  herself  to  follow  my  mother's  ex- 
ample quietly  and  humbly.  Once,  after  looking  at  my  mother, 
she  came  and  kissed  me,  and  said,  "  Who  would  ha^-e  thought  her 
so  noble  ?  "     From  that  time  she  became  my  heroine. 

Erne  came  to  see  us  just  as  usual,  and  until  long  after  it  was 
all  over,  he  never  found  out  that  anything  was  wrong.  Our  in- 
tense pride  made  us  cunning.  We  were  always  exactly  as  we 
were  in  old  times,  whenever  he  called.  My  mother  and  Emma 
never  sang  in  that  ostentatious  way  when  he  was  there,  and  all 
violent  demonstrations  of  affection  towards  one  another  were 
dropped.  He  was  perfectly  unacquainted  with  our  terrible 
strait  all    through.      We  knew   that  one  word   to  him  would 


156  THE  IIILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

have  ended  our  troubles  at  once.  TVe  knew  that  fifty  pounds 
would  have  tided  us  over  the  evil  time,  and  that  fifty  pounds  was 
to  be  had  by  asking;  but  we  couldn't  ask  from  him.  More,  we 
must  not  let  him  guess  that  we  were  in  difficulties,  lest  he  should 
offer,  and  we  should  have  peremptorily,  and  without  the  help  of 
ordinary  tact  (for  we  were  low-bred  people),  to  refuse  his  offer. 

If  you  ask.  Were  there  any  further  motives  which  caused  us 
to  be  so  cautious  in  keeping  our  difficulties  from  Erne  ?  I  answer, 
They  were  simply  these  :  —  My  father  and  mother,  who  did  not 
know  of  Erne's  love  for  Emma,  were  too  proud  and  high-minded 
to  take  advantage  of  him.  Joe  and  I,  who  had  become  aware  of 
that  attachment,  would  have  thought  that  we  were  selling  our 
sister  ;  and  as  for  Emma  —  why,  I  should  not  have  liked  to  be  the 
man  who  would  have  proposed  such  a  thing  to  her.  I  would 
sooner  have  gone  alone  into  Augusta  Court  or  Danvers  Street 
after  dark,  fifty  times  over,  than  have  faced  the  tornado  of  passion- 
ate scorn  which  would  have  broken  over  any  one's  head  who  pro- 
posed to  her  to  trade  on  Erne's  love  for  her.  And,  moreover, 
although  I  had  never  seen  Emma  in  a  moment  of  terrible  emer- 
gency, yet  I  knew,  by  a  kind  of  instinct,  that  Emma's  dove-like 
head,  which  we  had  only  seen  as  yet  turned  from  side  to  side  in 
gentle  complacency,  or  at  most  raised  calmly  in  remonstrance, 
was,  nevertheless,  capable  of  towering  up  into  an  attitude  of 
scornful  defiance ;  and  that  that  gentle  loving  voice,  in  which  we 
had  heard  no  shrill  note  as  yet,  was  capable  of  other  tones,  —  of 
tones  as  clear,  as  fierce,  and  as  decided,  as  those  of  any  scolding 
Peregrine. 

This  bitter  trial  of  ours  —  (for  three  weeks,  we  elders  were 
more  than  half  starved,  if  you  will  excuse  my  mentioning  it ;  and 
we  pawned,  to  use  my  mother's  forcible  English,  every  stick  of 
furniture  and  every  rag  of  clothes  that  could  be  spared)  —  had  a 
great  effect  on  Emma.  She  never  was  dictatorial  after  this.  Be- 
fore this,  she  was  as  perfect  as  need  be,  but  unluckily  she  thought 
so,  and  required  sometimes  what  I,  in  my  low  vulgar  way,  would 
have  called  "  shutting  up."  But,  after  my  mother  utterly  as- 
tounded us  all,  by  behaving  as  she  did  —  taking  the  helm,  play- 
ing first  fiddle  in  the  family  choir,  and  drawing  the  family  coach 
clear  off  the  lee  shore  of  despair  (Harry  says  that  there  is  a  con- 
fusion of  metaphor  here,  but  Harry  is  a  fool),  —  after  those  times, 
she  was  not  only  humbler  in  her  suggestions,  but  developed  a 
busy  energy  quite  unlike  the  steady,  peaceful  diligence  of  the  old 
easy-going  times.  When,  shortly  after  this,  in  an  emergency,  she 
displayed  courage  and  determination  of  the  highest  order,  I  was 
not  in  the  least  surprised. 

How  my  father  and  I  worked  all  this  time  !  Real  work  was, 
alas !  very  slack,  but  we  made  work,  —  made  things  on  specu- 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  157 

lation,  —  tliini^s  wliich  never  were  asked  for,  and  wliicli  never 
were  worth  tlie  coals  they  cost.  My  father,  a  perfect  Quciitiri 
Matsys,  set  to  work  on  a  small  wrought-iron  gate,  from  designs 
furnished  by  Joe,  which,  if  completed,  was  to  make  his  fortune. 
It  was  never  finished ;  but  I  have  it  now,  and  a  beautiful  piece 
of  work  it  is. 

Erne  brought  us  news  from  Reuben.  He  was  going  on  just 
tlie  same,  and  seemed  as  great  a  favorite  as  ever  with  Sir  George, 
aiul,  what  seemed  still  stranger,  with  young  Mr.  George.  Erne 
always  lowered  his  voice  now  when  he  spoke  of  his  brother. 
There  was  no  doubt,  he  said,  that  George  regarded  him  with  deep 
jealousy  and  dislike.  "  He  is  afraid,"  said  Erne,  "  of  my  coming 
between  my  father  and  him.  I  never  do  that.  When  he  and 
my  lather  are  together  I  am  seldom  there,  and  when  present 
silent.  The  only  time  I  get  with  my  father  is  when  he  and  my 
brother's  wife  are  together.  I  always  join  these  two,  and  we 
three  are  very  happy  together." 

And  during  all  this  time,  in  the  midst  of  short  commons, 
anxiety,  and  hard  work,  I  had  on  my  mind  the  terrible  guilty 
secret  of  that  dreadful  room  up  stairs,  and  of  what  I  had  seen 
tliere.  I  was  as  silent  as  death  on  the  subject.  I  had  had  no 
opportunity  of  communicating  wdth  Keuben  since  the  night  of 
my  adventure ;  and  the  one  small  piece  of  comfort  in  the  whole 
matter  was,  that  Reuben  was  still  away  at  Stanlake,  and  would, 
in  all  probability,  follow  the  family  in  the  summer.  Therefore, 
whatever  happened,  he  must  be  held  to  be  innocent. 

Meanwhile,  I  had  not  even  Joe  to  consult  with  ;  for,  a  few 
days  alter  our  adventure  in  Reuben's  room,  he  met  with  a 
singular  piece  of  good  fortune,  which  seemed  likely  to  affect 
materially  his  prospects  in  life. 


158  THE  niLLYAES  AND  THE  BURTONS. 


CHAPTER    XXX. 

JAMES  BURTON'S  STORY  :  IN  WHICH  TWO  GREAT  PIECES  OF 
GOOD  FORTUNE  BEFALL  US,  —  ONE  VISIBLE,  THE  OTHER  IN- 
VISIBLE. 

Sir  George  Hillyar,  I  found  out  afterwards,  had  sat  in 
Parliament  twice  in  his  Hfe,  on  the  Tory  interest.  If  there  had 
been  any  interest  more  re-actionary  than  the  Tory  interest,  he 
would  have  connected  himself  with  it  instantly.  He  had  utterly 
outnewcastled  Newcastle  ever  since  he  married  his  keeper's 
daughter :  since  he  had  brought  a  plebeian  Lady  Hillyar  into  the 
house,  it  became  necessary  for  the  family  respectability  to  assert 
itself  in  some  other  direction,  and  it  asserted  itself  in  the  direction 
of  Toryism.  Sir  George,  with  the  assistance  of  a  few  others,  got 
up  a  little  Tory  revival ;  and  they  had  so  edified  and  improved 
one  another,  —  so  encouraged  one  another  to  tread  in  newer  and 
higher  fields  of  Toryism,  —  as  to  be  looked  on  with  respectful 
admiration  by  the  rest  of  the  party.  And  among  this  small  knot 
of  men  who  claimed,  as  it  were,  a  superior  sanctity.  Sir  George 
Hillyar  had  the  first  place  conceded  to  him,  as  the  most  shining 
light  of  them  all. 

At  this  time,  —  at  the  time  of  our  troubles,  —  a  general  elec- 
tion was  approaching,  and  Sir  George  Hillyar,  at  the  solicitation 
of  a  powerful  body  of  men,  determined  to  enter  public  life  for  the 
third  time,  and  contest,  when  the  time  should  come,  the  borough 
of  Malton. 

We  heard  this  news  from  Mr.  Compton,  and  were  wondering 
why  he  had  come  to  tell  us  about  it,  when  he  struck  us  all  of  a 
heap  by  announcing  a  most  remarkable  piece  of  good  fortune. 
Sir  George  had  offered  Joe  the  post  of  private  secretary,  with  a 
salary  of  two  hundred  a-year. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  "  said  Mr.  Compton,  trium- 
phantly, to  Joe. 

Joe  was  trying  to  express  his  astonishment  and  delight,  when 
he  fairly  burst  into  tears  ;  and  I  do  n't  think  any  of  us  were  very 
far  behind  him.  We  had  always  known  that  Sir  George  meant 
to  provide  for  Joe,  but  we  never  expected  such  an  offer  as  this  to 
come  at  such  a  time. 

"  And  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?     Is  the  salary  enough  ?  " 

"  Lord  bless  you,  sir,"  said  Joe  ;  "  never  mind  the  salary.     I  'd 


THE  IIILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  159 

go  barefoot  in  such  a  place  as  that.  There  is  no  telling  how  I 
may  end." 

"  Indeed,  you  are  right,"  said  Mr.  Compton ;  "  and  you 
thoroughly  deserve  your  good  fortune.  Sir  George  has  em- 
ployed me  for  a  long  time  to  make  inquiries  about  your  capa- 
city and  steadiness,  and  you  have  enabled  me  to  make  such  a 
report  of  you  as  has  secured  you  this  offer.  I  wish  you  every 
success." 

So  Joe  departed,  dressed  Hke  a  gentleman,  "  burning  high  with 
hope."  The  family  troubles  were  to  come  to  an  end  in  no  time 
now.  All  tlie  morning  before  he  went  he  was  restlessly  and 
eagerly,  with  flushed  face,  laying  out  his  plans  for  our  future 
benefit ;  and  Emma  either  was,  or  pretended  to  be,  as  enthusias- 
tic and  hopeful  as  he  was,  and  encouraged,  nay,  even  surpassed, 
liis  boldest  flights  of  fancy,  until,  by  her  arts,  she  had  got  Joe  to 
believe  that  all  which  had  to  be  done,  was  already  done,  and  to 
forget,  for  a  time  at  least,  that  he  was  leaving  us  behind  in  pov- 
erty and  wearing  anxiety. 

Delighted  as  we  were  with  his  good  fortune,  we  sadly  felt  the 
loss  of  one  familiar  face  at  such  a  time  as  that.  But  soon  we 
had  other  things  to  think  of,  for  our  troubles  came  faster  and 
faster. 

On  the  Saturday  night  after  Joe  had  gone,  I  noticed  that  our 
three  men  were  unusually  boisterous.  George  Martin,  the  head 
man,  struck  me  as  meaning  mischief  of  some  kind,  and  I  watched 
him  carefully.  He  hurried  his  work  in  a  somewhat  offensive 
manner,  struck  with  unnecessary  vigor,  upset  the  tools  and  swore 
at  them,  —  did  everything  in  fact  that  he  ought  not  to  do,  except 
lame  any  of  the  horses  ;  with  them  he  was  still  the  splendid 
workman  that  my  father  had  made  him.  But  in  whatever  he 
did,  all  the  fore  part  of  the  afternoon,  the  other  two  followed 
suit,  though  with  smaller  cards.  They  did  not  speak  to  my 
father  or  me,  but  they  told  one  another  stories,  which  were  re- 
ceived with  ostentatious  lau,u:hter ;  and  Martin  seemed  inclined 
to  bully  my  fellow-apprentice,  Tom  AVilliams.  My  father  and  I 
knew  what  they  were  going  to  do ;  they  were  going  to  strike, 
and  make  it  easier  by  quarrelling  with  us. 

They  had  not  much  chance  of  doing  that.  I  was  very  angry, 
but  I  imitated  my  father  as  well  as  I  could  ;  and  he,  that  after- 
noon, was  more  courteous,  more  patient,  and  more  gentle  than 
ever.  About  three  o'clock  my  father  was  called  out  on  business^ 
and  they,  to  my  gi-eat  delight,  began  quarrelling  among  them- 
selves.    How  little  I  thought  what  that  quarrel  would  lead  to ! 

The  moment  my  father's  back  was  turned  Jack  Martin  began 
on  Tom  Williams,  the  apprentice,  again.  At  first  he  confined 
himself  to  impertinences,  and  kept  addressing  him  as  Werk'us 


160  THE  PIILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

(he  was  a  parish  boy,  which  made  mj  father  very  jealous  about 
having  him  ill-used  or  insulted,  as  Jack  Martin  well  knew)  ;  but 
after  a  time,  finding  that  Tom  was  as  gentle  and  as  patient  as 
ever,  he  began  to  take  further  hberties,  and  dropped  two  or  three 
things  on  his  toes,  and  once  threw  a  shoe  at  him.  Meanwhile  I 
would  have  died  sooner  than  interfere  on  behalf  of  Tom,  though 
I  could  have  stopped  Jack  Martin  at  once. 

Now  the  third  and  youngest  of  our  men,  who  had  been  with 
us  about  a  year,  was  a  young  Comishman,  Trevittick  by  name, 
a  very  taciturn,  ahnost  sulky  fellow,  who  had  resisted  all  our 
efforts  to  be  intimate  with  him,  but  who  had  in  his  silent,  sulky 
way  conceived  a  great  regard,  certainly  never  exhibited  in  pub- 
lic, for  Tom  Williams,  the  apprentice.  After  he  had  been  with 
us  about  a  month  he  had  obtained  my  father's  consent  to  Tom's 
sharing  his  lodgings,  at  his,  Trevittick's,  expense.  Shortly  after- 
wards I  made  the  surprising  discovery  that  he  and  Tom  used  to 
sit  up  half  the  night  reading  mechanics  and  geology,  and  that 
Tom  was  bound  to  the  very  strictest  secrecy  on  the  subject.  To 
this  man  Trevittick,  therefore,  whose  personal  appearance  was 
that  of  a  very  strong  Jew  prize-fighter,  with  frizzly  purple  hair, 
I,  on  this  occasion,  left  the  defence  of  Tom  Williams,  with  the 
most  perfect  confidence. 

Trevittick  was  the  most  absolutely  silent  man  I  ever  met  in 
my  life.  Consequently,  when  Jack  Martin  had,  for  a  pretended 
fault,  taken  Tom  Williams  by  the  hair  of  his  head  and  shaken 
him,  and  Trevittick  had  said,  in  a  short,  sharp  growl,  "  Leave 
that  boy  alone,  you  coward,"  Jack  Martin  stood  aghast,  and  asked 
him  what  he  said. 

"  You  heerd  what  I  said  well  enough.     Do  it." 

Martin  was  very  much  surprised,  and  made  no  answer  for  an 
instant :  but  the  word  "  yield  "  (or  more  correctly  the  expression 
"  shut  up  ")  and  Jack  Martin  were  utter  strangers  ;  so  he  walked 
up  to  Tom  Williams,  collered  him,  and  shook  him  again. 

"  Drop  that  boy  now,  Jack,  or  I  '11  make  'ee,"  growled  Trevit- 
tick once  more,  in  a  rather  deeper  tone. 

After  this,  according  to  the  laws  of  London  honor,  there  re- 
mained nothing  but  for  Jack  Martin  to  call  on  Trevittick  to  come 
outside  ;  which  corresponds  to  the  "  after  school "  or  "  the  old 
place"  of  your  early  days,  my  dear  sir.  But  Jack  had  not  time 
to  say  the  words,  when  my  father  —  who  had  been  waiting  out- 
side, talking  to  a  man  on  business  —  thought  fit  to  come  in,  and 
to  say  in  a  very  gentle,  polite  voice, 

"  Mates  !  mates  !  if  you  '11  be  so  good  as  to  work  in  my  time, 
and  to  quarrel  arterwards  in  your  own,  I  shall  be  obliged." 

So  they  set  to  work  again,  I  all  the  time,  like  a  low-lifed  boy 
as  I  was,  thinking  what  a  splendid  fight  there  would  be  in  Bat- 


THE  niLLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  IGl 

tersea  fields  the  next  morning;  for  tliere  were  certainly  not  a 
dozen  men  in  tlie  })rize-rinjT  wlio  could  have  stood  long,  before 
either  Jack  Martin  or  Trevittick. 

But  at  six  o'clock,  althou^li  tliere  was  still  work  enough  to 
keep  my  father  and  Tom  Williams  and  me  hard  at  it  till  two 
o'clock  on  Sunday  morning,  my  father  said  it  Avas  time  to  knock 
off,  and  took  out  the  men's  money.  Jack  Martin  was  paid  first, 
and  he,  I  knew,  would  be  spokesman.  When  he  got  his  money 
he  spit  on  it,  and  then  jingled  it  in  his  closed  hands. 

"  Come,  Mr.  Burton,"  he  said,  in  a  tone  of  injured  innocence. 
"Why  they're  a-giving  of  a  pound  down  at  Jumston's.  That's 
what  Jumston  's  a-doing  on.     A-giving  of  a  pound." 

"  And  I  think.  Jack,  as  Mr.  Jumston  's  giving  two  shillings  too 
much.  Why,  that  six  shillings  as  you  men  are  asking  for,  is  six 
shillinijs  off  the  kids'  victuals.  Six  bob's  worth  of  bread  and 
butter,  as  I  'm  a  true  man." 

Jack  Martin  began  to  talk  himself  into  a  passion,  while  my 
father  raised  himself  on  to  the  forge,  and  sat  comfortably  on  the 
edge  of  the  cinders. 

"  Well,  then,  I  '11  tell  you  where  it  is,"  said  Jack  Martin,  "  me 
and  my  mates  must  look  to  ourselves.  White  men,  leave  alone 
Druids  and  Foresters,  is  not  slaves  nor  negro  bones.  Nor  are 
they  going  to  be,  Mr.  Burton ;  thank  you  for  your  kind  inten- 
tions all  the  same.  Come,  sack  us,  will  you  ?  Take  and  give 
the  sack  to  the  whole  three  on  us.     Come." 

"  I  don't  want  to  give  you  the  sack.  Jack  Martin,"  said  my 
father.  "  I  'm  a  ruined  man,  as  you  know.  But  I  won't  rob  the 
kids." 

"  Then  this  is  where  it  is,"  said  the  other,  who  had  now  got 
himself  into  as  towering  a  passion  as  he  could  have  wished ;  "  the 
master  as  won't  give  the  pound  when  asked,  nor  the  sack  when 
challenged,  is  no  master  for  me  or  my  mates." 

"  Well,  you  need  n't  get  in  a  wax  over  it,  old  chap,"  said  my 
father.  "  If  you  like  to  stay  for  eighteen  bob,  stay.  /  don't 
want  you  to  go."  ^ 

"  Not  if  we  know  it,  thank  you,"  said  Jack,  louder  than  ever. 
"  We  must  look  to  ourselves.  If  you  won't  give  us  the  sack, 
why,  then  we  take  it.     Now  ! " 

"  I  've  been  a  good  and  kind  master  to  you.  Jack.  I  've 
teached  you  your  trade.  And  now,  when  things  look  a  little 
black,  you  want  to  leave  me.  And  you  're  not  contented  with 
leaving,  but  you  are  so  ashamed  of  your  meanness  that  you  puts 
yourself  into  a  passion,  and  irritates  and  insults  me.  Now  it  runs 
to  this.  Jack.  You  're  a  younger  man  than  me  :  but  if  you  hol- 
lers like  that,  in  this  here  shop,  I  '11  be  blowed  if  I  dont  see 
whether  I  can't  put  you  out  of  it.     You  'd  better  go." 

K 


162  THE  HILLY AES  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

Jack  was  so  astonished  at  such  a  speech  as  this  coming  from 
the  pacific  James  Burton,  that  he  departed  wondering  and  rather 
ashamed.  INIy  father  paid  the  other  man,  and  he  went,  and  then 
he  turned  to  Trevittick,  who  was  sitting  on  the  anvil,  and  offered 
him  his  money. 

''  Never  mind  me,  master,"  growled  Trevittick,  speaking  now 
for  the  first  time ;  "/  ain't  a-going  to  leave  you.  I  was  going 
this  morning,  but  I  've  thought  better  of  it.  Never  mind  thikky 
money  neithc^r.  I  've  a-got  to  fight  to  Jack  Martin  to-morrow 
morning,  and  I  should  be  knocking  that  down,  and  a  deal  more 
too.  You'm  best  owe  me  my  wages  a  few  weeks.  I  've  saved 
lots,  ain't  I,  Tom  ?" 

But  Tom  had  disaj)peared.  And  looking  at  my  father  I  saw 
that  he  had  colored  scarlet  up  to  the  roots  of  his  hair,  but  was 
quite  silent.  After  a  time  he  managed  to  say  to  Trevittick, 
"  Thank  ye,  lad,  —  thank  'ee,  kindly."  That  was  all  he  said,  and 
all  that  Trevittick  wanted  him  to  say. 

Trevittick  went  out  without  another  word ;  but  in  about  half 
an  hour  he  came  back  with  Tom  Williams,  and  silently  set  to 
work.  When  my  father  got  behind  him  he  began  telegraphing 
to  Tom  Williams,  and  Tom  replied  by  nodding  his  head  nearly 
off,  and  smiling.  Then  the  next  time  my  father  got  near  Tom 
he  patted  him  on  the  back ;  by  which  things  I  knew  that  Tom 
had  contrived  to  stop  the  fight,  and  that  we  should  never  know 
whether  the  Cornishman  or  the  Londoner  was  the  best  man. 
Was  I  a  little  disappointed  ?  Well,  I  am  afraid  I  was  a  little 
disappointed.  It  was  so  very  long  ago,  you  must  remember,  and 
I  did  not  write  "  Honorable  "  before  my  name  at  that  time.  But 
strict  truth  compels  me  to  state  that  I  was  a  little  disappointed ;  I 
was  indeed. 

Meanwhile  we  three  set  to  work,  and  worked  far  into  the 
night :  none  of  us  any  more  conscious  of  the  astounding  piece  of 
good  fortune  which  had  befallen  us  than  was  Fred,  asleep  on 
Emma's  shoulder,  with  his  balmy  breath  upon  her  cheek. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  163 


CHAPTER    XXXI. 

GEORGE  BEGINS  TO  TAKE  A  NEW  INTEREST  IN  REUBEN. 

There  was  no  doubt  at  all  that  what  Erne  had  said  was  true. 
So  anxious  was  he  not  to  come  between  his  brother  and  his  father, 
that  he  never  interrupted  them  in  a  tete-a-tete  ;  nay  more,  seldom 
saw  much  of  his  father  except  in  the  presence  of  George's  wife, 
Gerty.  These  three,  however,  were  very  much  together,  and  en- 
joyed one  another's  company  immensely. 

George  was  furious  at  this  arrangement ;  he  had  set  Gerty  on 
his  father  expressly  to  see  what  she  could  do.  She  was  making 
immense  progress  with  the  old  man,  when  Erne  stepped  in,  as  it 
seemed  to  him,  and  interfered.  He  attributed  Erne's  eager  pleas- 
ure in  the  society  of  his  sister-in-law  to  the  very  deepest  finesse. 
In  his  generous  conduct  he  chose  to  see  nothing  but  the  lowest 
and  meanest  cunning. 

"  Look  at  him,"  he  would  growl  to  himself  behind  his  book ; 
"  look  at  the  artful  cub,  with  his  great  eyes,  and  his  gentle  voice. 
Who  would  think  he  was  such  a  young  sneak  ?  practising  off  his 
arts  against  those  of  my  —  Oh !  my  trebly-dyed  fool  of  a  wife.  If 
she  had  had  an  ounce  of  brains,  we  might  have  had  that  will  al- 
tered long  ago.  If  I  could  only  get  her  to  quarrel  with  Erne  ! 
But  she  won't,  and  I  dare  n't  scold  her,  for  fear  she  should  show 
signs  of  it  before  him.  Oh  !  if  she  only  knew  what  I  was  saying 
to  her  under  my  breath  sometimes  !  —  if  she  only  knew  that !  " 

George  could  hate  pretty  well,  and  now  he  got  to  hate  Erne 
most  decidedly.  Poor  fellow !  he  still  loved  his  wife,  but  she 
made  him  terribly  mad  with  her  silliness  sometimes.  It  was  well 
for  Gerty  that  she  was  under  the  protection  of  Sir  George  Hill- 
yar.  James  Oxton  would  have  trembled  had  he  seen  the  ex- 
pression of  George's  face  now  at  times.  The  long-continued 
anxiety  about  his  succession  in  his  father's  will  was  wearing 
him  into  a  state  of  nervous  excitement.  He,  at  this  time,  took 
up  with  one  of  his  old  habits  again.  He  used  to  go  to  Loudon 
and  play  heavily. 

Reuben  had  stayed  about  vStanlake  so  long  that  it  was  just  as 
well,  said  Sir  George,  that  he  should  stay  on  until  they  went  to 
the  Tliames  in  the  summer.  Altliough  he  was  only  hired  by  the 
month,  yet  every  one  about  the  place  would  have  been  univer- 
sally surprised  if  anything  had  occurred  to  terminate  his  engage- 
ment.    He  was  considered  now  to  be  a  sort  of  servant  to  Erne, 


164  THE  HILLYARS  AND   THE  BURTONS. 

who  seemed  much  attached  to  him ;  but  every  one  knew  that  it 
was  by  the  wish  of  Sir  George  himself  tliat  Reulicn  was  retained 
tliere.  Also  it  is  singular ;  but  the  well  trained  servants  found 
out  that  Reuben  was  to  be  called  Reuben,  and  that  the  name  of 
Burton  was  not  to  be  used  at  all ;  and  when  Joe  made  his  appear- 
ance as  secretary,  they  were  instructed  to  address  him  as  Mr.  Jo- 
seph. Some  of  the  older  servants,  who  remembered  Samuel, 
knew  well  enough  why ;  and  wondered  to  themselves  whether  or 
no  he  knew  who  Reuben  was. 

It  was  not  very  long  after  the  arrival  of  the  George  Hillyars, 
that  George,  walking  through  the  grounds,  by  the  edge  of  the 
lake,  near  the  boat-house,  came  across  Reuben ;  who,  with  his 
boat-mending  instinct,  acting  under  the  impression  that  he  must 
do  something,  was  scraping  a  fir  sapling  with  a  spoke-shave,  try- 
ing to  make  a  punt-pole  of  it ;  which  is  what  no  one,  who  cares 
for  a  ducking,  ever  did  yet.  He  was  also  singing  to  himself  a 
song  very  popular  at  that  time  among  the  London  youth,  which 
may  be  advantageously  sung  to  the  tune  of  "  Sitch  a  getting  up 
stairs  " :  if  you  can  only  get  the  words,  which  I  fear  are  lost  for- 
ever. Reuben  had  his  back  to  George,  and  George  heard  him 
sing,  with  the  most  determined  cockney  accent,  — 

"  The  very  next  morning  he  was  seen, 

In  a  jacket  and  breeches  of  velveteen. 

To  Bagnigge  Wells  then  in  a  bran 

New  gownd  she  went  with  this  'ere  dog's-meat  man. 

She  had  shrimps  and  ale  with  the  dog's-meat  man, 

And  she  walked  arm  in  arm  with  the  dog's-meat  man, 

And  the  coves  all  said,  what  around  did  stan', 

That  he  were  a  werry  nobby  dog's-meat  man. 
Oh  he  were  such  a  handsome  dog's-meat  man, 
Such  a  sinivating  titivating  dog's-meat  man." 

George  Hillyar  called  out,  "  Hallo,  you  fellow !  " 

And  Reuben,  not  seeing  who  it  was,  replied,  "  Hallo,  you  fel- 
low !  it  is."  And  then  he  turned  round,  and,  seeing  who  it  was, 
was  shent,  and  thought  he  was  going  to  catch  it. 

"  I  ask  your  pardon,  sir,"  he  said ;  "  I  thought  you  was  the 
turncock  come  for  the  income-tax.  There,"  he  added,  with  one 
of  his  irresistible  laughs,  "  don't  be  angry,  your  honor.  I  can't 
help  talking  nonsense  at  times,  if  I  was  hung  for  it." 

"•  Are  you  the  young  waterman  that  my  father  has  taken  such 
a  fancy  to  ?  " 

Reuben  sheepishly  said  he  supposed  he  was. 

"  I  should  n't  advise  you  to  treat  him  to  many  such  songs  as 
you  were  singing  just  now.  You  should  try  to  drop  all  this 
blackguardism  if  you  mean  to  get  on  with  him." 

"  Lord  bless  you,  sir,"  said  Reuben,  "  you  'd  never  make  nothink 
of  me.     I  've  been  among  the  coal  barges  too  long,  I  have." 

"  I  've  seen  many  a  swell  made  out  of  rougher  stuff  than  you ; 


THE   iriLLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS.  165 

you  might  make  rather  a  line  bird  in  other  feathers.  IIow  old 
are  you  ?  " 

'"  Twenty,  sir," 

"  Has  he  given  you  any  education  ?  " 

"Has  who,  sir?" 

"  Sir  George,  of  course." 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Reuben,  in  wonder. 

"  What  a  shame,"  thought  George  to  himself.  "  I  wonder  wliat 
he  is  going  to  do  for  him.  There  is  one  thing,"  he  went  on  think- 
ing, and  looking  at  Reuben  with  a  smile ;  "  there  is  no  mistake 
about  the  likeness  :  I  shall  make  friends  with  the  son  of  the  Ijond- 
woraan.  I  wonder  Avho  the  dickens  she  was.  I  like  this  fellow's 
looks,  much." 

"  Who  is  your  friend  ?  "  he  asked  aloud,  pointing  to  a  young 
man  who  had  just  come  up,  and  was  waiting  respectfully  a  little 
way  off. 

"  That  is  my  cousin  James,  sir." 

James  Burton,  wdio  has  told  some  three  quarters  of  the  story 
hitherto,  here  approached.  He  was  a  tall,  good-looking  lad  of 
about  eighteen,  with  a  very  amiable  face,  and  yet  one  which  gave 
you  the  idea  that  he  was  deficient  neither  in  brains  nor  determi- 
nation. He  approached  George  with  confidence,  though  with  great 
respect,  and  waited  for  him  to  speak. 

"  So  you  are  Erne's  friend,  the  blacksmith,  hey  ?  "  said  George. 

James  said  "  Yes." 

"  And  how  does  your  pretty  sister  do,  eh,  lad  ?  I  am  very 
anxious  to  see  this  pretty  flame  of  Erne's.  If  she  is  as  pretty  as 
Erne  says  she  is,  the  young  rogue  must  have  an  eye  for  beauty." 

Jim  blushed  very  much,  and  looked  very  awkward,  at  this  free 
and  easy  way  of  implying  an  engagement  between  Erne  and 
Emma.  '  He  said  nothing,  however,  and  immediately  George 
turned  away  from  him  and  began  talking  once  more  to  Reuben. 

This  was  their  first  interview,  and  very  soon  Reuben  had  won 
over  George  Hillyar  as  he  had  won  his  father.  Another  noticea- 
ble fact  is  that  the  old  man  perceived  George's  growing  liking  for 
Reuben,  and  seemed  pleased  at  it.  George  had  nothing  to  com- 
plain of  in  his  father's  treatment  of  him.  So  George  was  very 
kind  indeed. 

If  Erne  could  have  been  got  out  of  the  way,  George  thought, 
everything  must  go  right. 

He  had  been  home  about  six  months,  when  one  morning  he 
would  go  rabbit-shooting,  and  so  he  sent  for  old  Morton,  the  head- 
keeper,  and  they  went  out  alone  together. 

It  was  a  glorious  May  day,  a  day  on  w^hich  existence  was  a 
pleasure,  and  they  left  the  moist  valley  and  the  thick  dark  woods 
far  bRhind  them,  and  climbed  up  the  steep  slope  of  the  chalk 


166  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

down,  to.  shoot  among  the  flowering  broom,  which  feathered  the 
very  loftiest  summit.  Tliey  stood  up  there,  with  the  county  at 
their  feet  like  a  map,  and  the  happy  May  wind  singing  among  the 
grass  and  the  junipei's  around  them. 

Poor  George  felt  quieter  up  here  with  his  old  friend.  He  had 
been  to  London  the  night  before,  playing,  and  losing  heavily,  and 
he  had  been  more  than  usually  irritated  with  Erne  that  morning. 
Instead  of  setting  to  work  shooting,  he  sat  down  beside  old  Mor- 
ton on  the  grass,  and,  taking  off  his  hat,  let  the  fresh  wind  blow 
his  hair  about. 

"  Morton,  old  fellow,"  he  began,  "  I  wish  I  had  n't  got  such  a 
cursed  temper.  You  may  n't  think  it,  but  I  very  often  wish  I 
was  a  better  fellow." 

"  You  are  good  enough  for  me.  Master  George,"  said  the  old 
man.     "  You  were  always  my  favorite." 

"  I  know  it,"  said  George.  "  That  is  very  queer.  Did  you 
think  of  me  all  the  time  I  was  away  ?  " 

"  I  always  thought  of  my  own  plucky  lad  that  I  taught  to  shoot. 
I  thought  of  you  constant  through  all  that  weary  time.  But  it 's 
come  to  an  end  now.     You  sowed  your  wild  oats,  it 's  true." 

"  But  I  have  n't  reaped  them,"  said  George,  with  his  head  on 
his  hands. 

The  old  man  took  no  notice  of  this  ;  he  went  on  :  "  And  here 
you  are  home  again,  with  the  most  beautiful  of  all  the  Lady  Ilill- 
yars,  since  there  were  a  Lady  Hillyar.  And  Sir  George  coming 
round  so  beautiful,  and  all  —  " 

"  But  I  am  disinherited,"  said  George ;  "  disinherited  in  favor 
of  Erne." 

"  Not  disinherited,  sir.     I  know  more  than  that." 

"  Next  thing  to  it,"  said  poor  George.  "  I  know  as  much  as 
that." 

"  There 's  time  enough  to  alter  all  that ;  and,  mark  my  word, 
Master  George,  I  know  Sir  George  better  than  any  man  living, 
and  I  can  take  liberties  with  him  that  you  durst  n't  —  bah  !  that 
Master  Erne  durst  n't.  And  I  tell  you  that  sweet  little  lady  of 
yourn  has  wound  herself  round  his  heart,  in  a  way  you  little 
think.  I  held  you  on  my  knee  when  you  were  a  little  one,  and  I 
dare  say  anything  to  you.  I  hearn  you  cursing  on  her  to  your- 
self for  a  fool  the  other  day.  Now  you  leave  her  alone.  Fool 
she  may  be,  but  she  will  do  the  work  if  it  is  to  be  done.  I  hearn 
'em  together.  Sir  George  and  her,  the  other  day,  and  I  says  to 
myself,  '  Either  you  are  the  silliest  little  hare  of  a  thing  as  ever 
ran,  or  else  you  are  the  artfuUest  little  — .'  There,  I  forget.  You 
let  her  alone.     If  it  is  to  be  done,  she  '11  do  it." 

"  No,  she  won't,  old  fellow,"  said  George.  "  There  's  Erne  in 
the  way.     There 's  Erue,  I  tell  you,  man.     He  never  leaves  them 


THE  UILLYARS  AND  TUE  BURTONS.  167 

alone  together.  lie  is  always  thrusting  his  cursed  beautiful  head 
in  between  them,  and  ruining  everything.  (Here  ho  gave  way, 
and  used  language  about  Erne  wiiifh  I  decline  to  write,  though 
there  was  not  a  single  oath,  or  a  single  improi)er  expression  in 
it).  Why,  I  tell  you,  Morton,  that  fellow's  beauty,  and  amia- 
bility, and  affectionate  gentleness,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,  as 
nearly  won  me  as  jwssible.  At  one  time  I  was  saying  to  myself, 
'  If  my  father  denies  me  justice,  I  shall  be  able  to  get  it  from 
him ' ;  and  so  I  thought,  until  I  saw  that  all  this  amiability  an<l 
gentleness  was  merely  the  art  of  a  beautiful  devil.  When  I  saw 
him  declining  to  do  battle  witli  me,  like  a  man,  and  saw  him 
sneak  in  between  my  wife  and  my  father,  then  I  said  to  myself, 
—  then  I  said  to  myself,  —  Oh,  stop  me,  old  Morton,  and  don't  let 
me  talk  myself  mad.  I  want  to  be  better.  I  swear  to  God  fl 
want  to  be  better.  But  I  am  sinking  into  hell,  and  there  is  no 
one  to  save  me.  Where  's  James  Oxton  ?  Why  was  he  fool 
enough  to  let  me  leave  him?  And  Aggy;  how  these  shallow- 
brained  women  delude  us,  with  their  mincing  airs  of  wisdom ! 
See  what  tliey  have  brought  me  to  now." 

Perhaps,  if  the  poor  fellow  had  chosen  to  make  friends  in  his 
own  rank  in  life,  he  might  have  found  one  honest,  educated  man, 
who  would  have  set  everything  right  for  him ;  at  all  events  have 
shown  him  that  his  suspicions  of  Erne  were  incorrect,  and  have 
made  the  ordinary  routine  of  life,  in  his  own  rank,  more  pleas- 
ant to  him.  But  he  had,  through  vanity  and  idleness,  early  in 
life  acquired  the  taste  for  being  the  greatest  man  in  the  com- 
pany ;  and  the  only  company  where  he  was  king  was  the  com- 
pany of  his  inferiors,  and  the  passion  stuck  to  him,  and  so  there 
he  was,  at  the  turning  point  of  his  life,  telling  his  troubles  to  a 
foolish  old  gamekeeper. 

The  old  man  said  nothing  to  turn  away  George's  wrath  from 
Erne.  Why  should  he  ?  George  had  always  been  his  favorite, 
and  he  believed  what  he  said  about  Erne.  No;  he  only  tried 
to  soothe  the  poor  fellow  with  commonplaces,  and  let  him  sit 
with  his  head  in  his  hands  until  the  wild  fit  had  passed  over. 
Then  old  Morton  was  glad  to  hear  him  chauiie  the  conversation. 

"  AVhat  do  you  think  of  that  young  Reuben  ?  "  asked  George. 

"  Reuben,"  said  the  old  man,  laughing ;  "  why,  every  one  is 
fond  of  Reuben.     A  merry,  cheeky  young  dog." 

"  I  have  taken  a  great  fancy  to  the  fellow  myself.  I  have  a 
very  great  mind  to  take  him  for  my  servant." 

"•  I  dare  say  he  would  make  a  good  one,  master,"  said  Morton. 
"  But  I  should  have  thought  you  had  had  one  too  many  of  that 
name.  His  father  was  n't  so  satisfactory  an  investment  as  might 
bo,  and — " 

"  His  father,"  said  George,  looking  quickly  round.  "  Ai'e  you 
mad  ?  " 


1G8  THE  HILLYARS  AKD  THE  BURTONS. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say,"  said  the  other  eagerly,  "  that  you  don't 
know  tliat  this  Reuben's  name  is  Burton,  and  that  he  is  the  son 
of  your  okl  servant  Samuel,  by,  —  you  know  who?" 

George  started  up,  and  stood  looking  at  Morton,  silent  and 
deadl}^  pale,  with  his  hands  clasped  wildly  in  his  hair,  for  nearly 
a  minute,  —  a  ghastly  sight  to  see.  Then  with  a  hollow  groan 
he  sank  on  liis  knees,  and  his  look  of  blank  horror  was  changed 
into  one  of  pitiful  entreaty. 

"  Morton  !  Morton  !  don't  kill  me.  The  dog  has  deceived  me. 
Don't  tell  me  that  she  is  alive  too.  Don't  kill  me  by  telling  me 
that." 

"  Get  up  from  the  grass.  Master  George.  You  frighten  me. 
She  died  ten  year  ago,  or  more." 

^  The  look  of  terror  left  George's  face  by  degrees.     It  was  evi- 
dent that  he  had  had  a  fearful  shock. 

"  How  long  ago  did  she  die,  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  She  died  when  Reuben  was  about  ten  years  old.  Jim  Bur- 
ton, the  Chelsea  blacksmith,  asked  me  to  come  over  to  her  funeral, 
as  having  known  her  once.  And  I  went.  Reuben  was  the  sec- 
ond child.  Master  George.     There  was  one  that  died." 

"  Are  you  certain  of  that  ?  " 

"  Positive  and  certain  sure.  I  took  care  to  be.  I  see  its 
little  coffin  carried  to  the  grave.  And  the  poor  thing,  she  told 
me  herself  that  it  was  the  eldest." 

"  He  wrote  and  told  me,"  said  George,  "  when  he  was  trans- 
ported, that  she  was  dead,  and  — .  There,  we  have  talked  enough 
about  that.     Do  you  know  that  he  and  I  have  quarrelled  ?  " 

It  was  Morton's  turn  to  look  astonished  now.  "  You  and 
who  ?  "  he  said,  with  a  blank  stare. 

"  I  and  Samuel  Burton  have  quarrelled." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  he  is  not  dead  yet  ?  " 

"  Curse  him,  no.  He  has  far  more  life  left  in  him  than  you 
have,  my  faithful  old  friend.  He  came  to  my  office  in  Palmer- 
ston  the  other  day,  and  I  quarrelled  with  him." 

"  That  was  unwise." 

"  It  was ;  but,  at  all  events,  he  is  safe  for  the  present.  He 
is  at  Perth,  in  Western  Australia,  14,000  miles  away." 

"  I  am  glad  of  that,"  said  old  Morton.  "  I  suppose  he  dare  n't 
come  home,  eh  !  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no,"  said  George.  "  He  dare  n't  come  to  England. 
He  would  get  life  for  it.     Come,  let  us  begin." 

They  began  sliooting.  Morton,  with  the  license  of  a  keeper, 
combined  with  that  of  a  confidential  friend,  said,  "  Mind  the  dogs, 
sir.     In  your  present  state  of  nerve,  mind  the  dogs." 

But  George  shot  beautifully.  The  old  trick  had  come  back  to 
him  again  after  a  few  months'  practice;  and  his  hand  and  eye 


THE  niLLYArs  and  the  burtons.  169 

were  a:s  true  as  ever.  He  shot  recklessly,  but  wonderfully  well, 
appearino;  all  the  time  to  he  so  nttei-ly  absent  and  distraui^lit, 
that  old  jMorton  kept  on  saying,  "  31ind  the  do^s,  sir  ;  for  Gawd's 
sake,  mind  the  dogs.  It's  old  Beauty,  tlie  governor's  pet;  and 
if  anything  happens  to  that  there  spaniel, —  Lord  a  mercy,  look 
at  that.  I  say,  Master  George,  hold  hard,  sir.  You  ain't  in  the 
humor  to  shoot  ral>hits  before  Chimher  spannels  worth  twenty 
guineas  a-piece.     Hold  hard,  sir.     Now,  do  hold  hard." 

'*  I  'm  shooting  better  than  ever  I  shot  in  my  life,"  said 
George. 

"  Too  beautiful  by  half.  But  leave  off  a  minute.  That  last 
shot  was  too  risky ;  it  were  indeed." 

"  All  right,"  said  George,  going  on  with  his  loading.  "  Have 
you  seen  this  girl  Emma  that  Erne  ?'affoles  about?" 

"  Yes,  sir.  She  is  daughter  of  Jim  Burton,  the  Chelsea  black- 
smith. Here,  Beauty  ;  here.  Frolic.  There,  put  down  your  gun 
a  bit,  Master  George.     There." 

"Is  her  name  Burton,  too?"  said  George.  "Why,  the  air 
seems  darkened  with  Burtons.  I  thought  somehow  that  she  was 
cousin  to  Joseph,  the  Secretary.     Or  did  I  dream  it  ?  " 

"  Why,  his  name  is  Burton,  too,  and  she  is  his  own  favorite 
sister,"  said  the  old  man.  "  He  is  Reuben's  cousin.  But  you 
mus'n't  say  the  name  of  Burton  in  that  house.  It  's  a  word 
mus'n't  be  said  at  Stanlake." 

"  Why  not  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know,  and  nobody  don't  know  ;  and  very  probably, 
with  an  obstinate  man  like  the  governor,  there  ain't  very  much 
to  know.  We  were  children  together,  and  I  know  him  better 
than  any  man  alive,  and  may  be  like  him  better  than  any  man 
alive,  except  one.  But  I  tell  you  that,  in  the  matter  of  obsti- 
nacy, Balaam's  ass  is  a  black-and-tan-terrier  to  him.  For  in- 
stance, /  don't  know  to  this  day  whether  or  no  he  knows  that 
Reuben  is  Sam,  the  steward-room  boy's  son.  Mr.  Compton  don't 
know  either.  Mr.  Compton  says  he  has  never  forgiven  Sam. 
We  soon  found  out  that  we  were  to  call  Reuben  by  his  Christian 
name.     And  he  makes  Joe  Burton  call  hisself  Joseph." 

"  But  this  Emma  " ;  asked  George,  "  is  there  any  chance  of 
Erne's  putting  his  foot  in  it  with  her  ?  " 

"  He  swears  he  will  marry  her,"  said  Morton.  "  The  gov- 
ernor did  the  same  thing  himself,  and  so,  may  be,  won't  find  much 
fault." 

"  Do  you  know  anything  about  the  girl  ?    Wliat  is  she  like  ?  " 

"  She  is  a  fine-made,  handsome  girl.     But  she  is  better  than 

that.     I  want  to  tell  you  a  story  about  her.     I  have  known  her 

father,  Jim  Burton,  Lord  love  you,  Master  George,  why  as  long 

as  I  've  known  Mr.  Compton ;  and  they  was  two  boys  together, 

8 


170  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

was  Mr.  Compton  and  him.  You  ain't  got  a  cigar  to  give  away, 
sir? 

"  I  have  known  James  Burton,  sir,"  continued  the  old  man, 
"ever  since  I  was  a  boy,  and  I  have  always  kept  up  an  occa- 
sional acquaintance  with  him :  and  one  day,  just  before  you 
came  home,  I  was  over  there,  and  he  said  to  me,  Laughing, 
'  What  a  game  it  is  to  hear  they  young  folks  a-talking,  good 
Lord  ! '  I  asked  him  what  he  meant,  and  he  said,  '  Why,  my 
girl  Emma  has  been  pitching  it  into  Master  Erne  like  one 
o'clock.  Such  airs  with  it,  too,  —  pointing  her  finger  at  him, 
and  raising  her  voice  quite  loud,  calling  him  by  his  Christian 
name,  and  he  answering  of  her  as  fierce  — '  And  I  asked  what 
he  and  the  girl  fell  out  about,  and  he  said  that  Master  Erne  had 
been  going  on  against  you,  —  that  you  were  n't  no  good ;  and 
that  she  'd  up,  and  given  it  to  him  to  his  face." 

"  She  must  be  rather  a  noble  person ;  I  '11  remember  }dm  for 
this,"  said  George.     "  Come,  Morton,  let  us  go  home." 

So  he  walked  rapidly  homeward  in  deep  thought,  and  Morton 
guessed  what  he  was  thinking  about,  —  Reuben.  Reuben, 
George  saw,  was  his  own  son.  There  was  a  slight  confusion 
about  the  date  of  his  birth,  and  the  poor  woman  had  lied  to 
Morton ;  but  there  was  no  doubt  about  his  features.  That 
square  honest  face  could  belong  to  no  son  of  the  thin-faced, 
hook-nosed  Burton.  No,  there  was  the  real  Hillyar  face  there. 
That  unset  mouth  was  not  Hillyar  either,  certainly,  but  he 
knew  where  that  came  from.  Yes  ;  now  he  knew  what  it  was 
that  attracted  him  so  strangely  to  Reuben  from  the  first.  Reu- 
ben had  looked  on  him  with  the  gentle  eyes  of  his  dead  mother. 

The  old  keeper  once,  and  once  only,  ventured  to  look  into  his 
face.  He  hardly  knew  him,  he  was  so  changed  since  they  had 
gone  that  road  two  hours  before.  His  face  was  raised,  and  his 
eyes  seemed  set  on  something  afar  off.  His  mouth  was  fixed  as 
though  he  had  a  purpose  before  him,  and  his  whole  expression 
was  softened  and  intensely  mournful.  The  old  man  had  seen 
him  look  so  when  he  was  a  boy ;  but  that  was  very,  very  long 
ago. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  171 


CHAPTER    XXXII. 

GERTY'S  HYBERNATION  TERMINATES. 

The  sun  was  so  warm  on  the  south  side  of  the  house,  that 
Gerty  had  come  out  on  tlie  terrace,  and  was  drinking  in  the 
floods  of  warmth  and  li^-ht  into  her  beino;.  The  first  tiling  she 
had  done,  her  very  first  instinct  after  a  few  minutes  of  what  was 
dreadfully  like  sun-worship,  was  to  dash  at  the  flowers  with  a 
childish  cry  of  delight,  —  anemones,  ranunculuses,  tulips,  narcis- 
suses, all  new  to  her.  George  found  her  with  her  hands  full  of 
them,  and  held  out  his  arms.  She  gave  a  laugh  of  joy  and 
sprang  into  them,  covering  his  head  with  her  flowers. 

Her  George  had  come  back  to  her  arms  with  the  warm 
weather.  The  ugly  cold  winter  had  passed.  It  was  that  which 
had  made  George  cross  to  her ;  every  one  was  splenetic  during 
an  English  winter.  The  French  laughed  at  us  about  it.  If 
they  could  only  get  back  to  the  land  of  sunshine  and  flowers,  he 
would  never  be  unkind  to  her.  If  she  and  he  and  baby  could 
only  get  back  again  to  the  dear  old  majestic  forests,  among  the 
orchises  and  lobelias  and  Grevilleas,  with  the  delicious  aromatic 
scent  of  the  bush  to  fill  their  nostrils,  they  would  be  happy  for 
evermore.  How  faint  and  sickly  these  narcissuses  smelt  after 
all,  beautiful  as  they  were.  One  little  purple  vanilla  flower  was 
worth  them  alL  Bah !  these  flowers  smelt  like  hair-oil,  after 
the  dear  little  yellow  oxalis  of  the  plains.  She  covered  his  face 
with  kisses,  and  said  only, — 

"  Take  me  back,  dear,  —  take  me  back  to  the  old  forest  again. 
"We  shall  never  be  happy  here,  dear.  The  flowers  all  smell  like 
pomatum ;  there  is  no  real  warmth  in  the  sun.  And  it  is  all  so 
close  and  confined :  there  is  no  room  to  ride ;  I  should  like  to 
ride  again  now,  but  there  is  no  place  to  ride  in.  Take  me  back. 
We  were  happier  even  at  Palmerston  than  here.  But  I  want  to 
go  back  to  the  bush,  and  feel  the  sun  in  my  bones.  This  sun 
will  never  get  into  your  bones.  Take  me  back  to  the  Gap, 
dear." 

"  And  leave  my  father  here  ?  "  said  George,  laughing.  "  For 
shame." 

"  Why  should  n't  he  come  too  ?  "  said  Gerty. 

"  You  had  better  propose  it  to  him,"  said  George,  kissing  her 
again. 

"  I  will  this  very  night,"  said  the  silly  little  woman.     And, 


172  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

what  is  more,  she  did.  And,  what  is  still  more  than  that,  Sir 
George,  after  sitting  silent  a  few  minutes,  said,  "  I  '11  be  hanged 
if  I  don'ty  And  after  Gerty  had  twittered  on  for  ten  minutes 
more  in  praise  of  the  country  of  the  Eucalypti,  he  looked  up 
and  said  to  the  ambient  air,  "  Why  the  dense  should  n't  I  have  a 
spree  ?  "  And  when  she  had  gone  on  another  quarter  of  an 
hour  on  the  same  subject,  he  looked  up  again,  and  then  and  there 
wished  he  might  be  wicked-worded  if  he  did  n't.  I  believe  he 
would  have  run  over,  if  circumstances  which  have  made  the 
history  of  these  two  families  w'orth  writing  had  never  occurred. 
But,  —  to  save  the  reader  any  unnecessary  anxiety,  —  he  never 
did. 

Poor  little  Gerty !  How  she  revelled  in  this  newly-restored 
love  of  her  husband's.  How  she  got  drunk  upon  it.  How  the 
deep  W' ell-springs  of  her  love  overflowed,  and  not  only  drowned 
George  and  the  baby,  but  floated  every  object  it  came  near : 
horses,  butlers,  dogs,  tulips,  ladies'-maids,  ranunculuses,  and 
grooms.  It  was  well  she  was  a  fool.  She  was  so  glad  to  see 
George  take  such  notice  of  the  young  w^aterman.  What  a  kind 
heart  he  had  !  Poor  little  thing ;  who  w^ould  have  dared  to  tell 
her  the  truth  about  him  and  Reuben  ?  If  she  could  have  been 
made  to  understand  it,  which  I  doubt,  I  think  it  would  have  gone 
far  to  kill  her. 

Sir  George  Hillyar  marked  George's  increased  attention  to 
Reuben  with  evident  satisfaction.  One  day,  overtaking  George 
in  the  shrubbery,  he  took  George's  arm  with  a  greater  show  of 
affection  than  he  had  ever  done  before,  and  walked  up  and  down, 
talking  very  kindly  to  him.  They  spoke  about  no  family  mat- 
ters, but  it  was  easy  to  see  that  George  was  gaining  in  his  Oth- 
er's favor.  As  they  were  talking  earnestly  together  thus,  Mr. 
Compton  and  Erne  came  round  the  corner  on  them.  Mr.  Comp- 
ton  w^as  very  much  surprised,  but  noticed  that  the  arm  which 
Sir  George  took  from  his  elder  son's,  to  shake  hands  with  his  old 
friend,  was  transferred  to  Erne,  and  that  George  was  left  to 
walk  alone. 


TUE  HILLY AES  AND  THE  BURTONS.  173 


CHAPTER    XXXIII. 

J.   BURTON'S   STORY:    THE   GHOST   SHOWS  A  LIGHT   FOR   THE 

SECOND   TIME. 

It  was  about  three  days  after  our  men  had  struck  and  left  us, 
that  something  took  place  which  altered  the  whole  course  of  our 
lives  in  the  most  singular  manner. 

It  was  a  dark  and  very  wet  night.  The  King's  Road,  as  I 
turned  out  of  it  into  Church  Street,  at  about  half  past  eleven, 
was  very  nearly  deserted ;  and  Church  Street  itself  was  as  silent 
as  the  grave. 

I  had  reached  as  far  as  the  end  of  the  Rectory  wall,  when,  from 
the  narrow  passage  at  the  end  of  the  lime-trees,  there  suddenly 
came  upon  me  a  policeman,  our  own  night-policeman,  a  man  I 
knew  as  well  as  my  own  fellow-apprentice.  At  this  I,  being  in 
a  humorous  mood,  made  a  feint  of  being  overcome  with  fear,  and 
staggered  back,  leaning  against  the  wall  for  support. 

"  Stow  larks,  Jimmy,"  said  the  constable,  in  a  low,  eager  voice. 
"  Something 's  going  wrong  at  home.  I  have  orders  to  stop  you, 
and  take  you  to  the  Inspector." 

"  So  it  had  come  then,"  I  thought  to  myself,  with  a  sickening 
feeling  at  my  heart.  I  could  'nt  find  words  to  say  anything  for  a 
moment. 

"  I  had  no  orders  to  take  you  into  custody,  Jimmy,"  the  con- 
stable whispered ;  "  only  to  tell  you  to  come  to  the  Inspector. 
There  's  nothing  again  your  hooking  on  it,  if  you  're  so  minded." 

I  answered,  returning  as  I  did  —  and,  heaven  help  me !  some- 
times do  still  —  on  occasions  of  emergency  —  to  my  vernacular, 
"I  ain't  got  no  call  for  hooking  on  it,  old  chap.  Come  on." 
(•'  Cub  awd,"  is  more  like  the  way  I  said  it  than  anything  else). 

And  so  we  came  on:  my  old  friend  the  constable  continuing  to 
force  home  the  moral  that  I  were  n't  in  custody,  and  that  there 
were  n't  nothink  again  hooking  on  it,  until,  at  the  corner  of  the 
place  I  have  chosen,  for  fear  of  an  action  for  libel,  to  call  Brown's 
Row,  we  came  against  the  man  whom,  also  for  iear  of  an  action 
■for  libel,  I  call  Detective  Joyce. 

He  was  alone,  under  the  lamp  of  the  Black  Lion.  When  he 
saw  us,  he  took  us  over  to  the  other  side  of  the  street,  and  said, 
quite  in  a  low  voice,  "  Is  this  the  young  man  Burton  ! " 

I,  with  that  self-assertion,  with  that  instinct  of  anticipating  ad- 
verse criticism,  —  that  strange,  half  cewardiy  feeliiig,  that  there 


174  THE    HILLYARS  AND   THE  BURTONS. 

is  some  unknown  advantage  in  having  an  innings  before  the 
other  eleven  get  in,  —  which  is  a  characteristic  of  the  true  Lon- 
doner,—  replied  that  it  was,  and  that  any  cove  who  said  that  I 
had  been  up  to  anytliink,  was  a  speaker  of  falsehoods. 

"  Well,  we  all  guess  that,"  said  the  Inspector.  ''  What  we 
want  to  find  out  is;  how  much  do  you  know  about  your  precious 
flash  cousin  Reuben's  goings  on  ?  I  don't  suppose  you  '11  tell 
us  till  you  are  under  cross-examination,  as  you  will  be  pretty 
soon.  You  're  in  custody,  lad.  And  silence^  mind.  There  ;  I  've 
seen  a  deal  that 's  bad,  and  that 's  wrong,  but  I  never  saw  any- 
thing that  shook  my  faith  in  folks  like  this.  Why,  if  any  man 
had  told  me,  six  weeks  ago,  that  old  Jim  Burton,  the  blacksmith, 
would  have  harbored  Bardolph's  gang  and  Sydney  Sam,  I  'd  have 
knocked  him  down,  I  think." 

"  He  never  knew  nothing  of  it,  sir,"  I  said  eagerly.  "  Me  and 
Joe " 

At  this  point  my  old  friend,  the  night-policeman,  garotted  me 
with  singular  dexterity.  As  he  held  his  hand  over  my  mouth, 
and  I  struggled,  he  said  to  the  Detective  Inspector,  — 

"  Come,  sir.  Fair  play  is  a  jewel.  Jimmy,  —  I  should  say, 
the  boy,  —  is  in  custody.  Take  and  caution  him,  sir.  I  asks 
you  in  fairness,  take  and  caution  on  him." 

The  Inspector  laughed.  "  Everything  you  say  will  be  put  in 
evidence  against  you.  I  mean,  you  d — d  young  fool,  hold  your 
tongue." 

This  took  place  against  the  railings  of  a  milk-shop,  on  the  left- 
hand  side  as  you  go  down  towards  the  river,  opposite  a  short 
street  which  leads  into  Paul  ton  Square  (which,  at  the  time  I 
speak  of,  was  "  Shepherd's  Nursery,"  or,  to  old  Chelsea  folk, 
"  Dove-house  Close ").  This  narrow  street,  which  is  now 
widened,  was  in  my  time  Brown's  Row,  a  mere  court  of  six- 
roomed  houses,  from  among  which  rose  majestically  the  vast 
old  palace  which  was  in  the  occupation  of  my  father. 

As  I  stood  there,  with  the  horror  and  disgrace  on  me  of  being 
in  custody  for  the  first  time  in  my  life,  with  the  terror  of  I  know 
not  what  upon  me ;  I  could  make  out,  in  spite  of  the  darkness 
and  the  rain,  the  vast  dark  mass  of  our  house  towering  into  the 
sky  to  the  west.  I  could  make  out  the  tall,  overhanging,  high- 
pitched  roof,  and  the  great  dormer-window,  which  projected  from 
it,  towards  us,  to  the  east ;  the  windows  of  the  Ghost's  room,  — 
of  Reuben's  room,  —  of  the  room  where  I  had  stood  helpless, 
waiting  for  my  death.  I  knew  that  the  present  complication  was 
connected  with  that  room :  and  with  a  sick  heart  I  watched  the 
window  of  it.     I  was  right. 

How  long  did  we  stand  in  the  rain,  —  the  Inspector,  constable, 
and  I?     A  hundred   years,  say.     Yet  I  looked  more  at  that 


THE  HILLY ARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  175 

window  than  anywhere  else  ;  and  at  last  I  saw  it  illuminated,  — 
dimly  at  first,  then  more  brinjhtly  ;  then  the  li^i^ht  moved :  and  ia 
a  moment  the  window  was  dark  again.  And,  while  I  saw  all 
this,  with  tlirobbing  eyes,  the  Inspector's  hand  closed  on  my  arm 
with  such  a  grip  as  made  me  glad  I  was  a  blacksmith,  and  he 
whispered  in  my  ear  :  — 

"  You  young  rascal !  You  see  that  light  ?  Take  me  to  the 
room  whoTe  that  light  is,  or  you  'd  better  never  have  been  born ! 
And  tell  me  this,  you  young  scoundrel :  Are  there  two  stair- 
cases, or  only  one  ?  " 

Now  that  I  saw  clearly  and  entirely,  for  the  first  time,  what 
was  the  matter,  I  wished  to  gain  a  moment  or  two  for  thought. 
And  with  that  end,  I  (as  we  used  to  say  in  those  times) 
"  cheeked  "  the  detective. 

"  Tell  you!  Not  if  I  know  it!  And  everything  to  be  took 
down  in  evidence !  Find  out  for  yourself.  I  'm  in  custody,  am 
I  ?  Then  take  me  to  the  station  and  lock  me  up.  I  ain't  going 
to  be  kept  out  in  the  rain  here  any  longer.  Who  the  dense  are 
you,  cross-questioning  and  Paul-Pry-ing  ?  What 's  your  charge 
against  me  ?  " 

"  You  '11  know  that  soon  enough,  you  young  fool,"  said  the 
Inspector. 

"  But  I  '11  hear  it  now.  I  want  to  be  took  to  Milman's  Row 
and  the  charge  made ;  that 's  what  I  want.  And  I  '11  have  it 
done,  too,  and  not  be  kep'  busnacking  here  in  the  rain.  I  '11 
make  work  for  fifty  of  you  in  two  minutes,  if  you  don't  do  one 
thing  or  the  other." 

And,  so  saying,  I  put  my  two  forefingers  in  my  mouth.  What 
I  meant  to  do,  or  what  I  pretended  I  meant  do,  is  no  business  of 
any  one  now  ;  all  that  concerns  us  now  is  that  I  never  did  it  and 
never  meant  to.  I  have  mentioned  before  that  Alsatia  was  only 
just  round  the  corner. 

Our  policeman  caught  my  hands,  and  said,  pathetically,  "  Jim- 
my, Jimmy,  you  would  n't  do  such  a  thing  as  that ! "  And  the 
Inspector  said,  "  You  young  devil,  I  '11  remember  you ! " 

"  Am  I  in  custody,  sir  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  No,  you  ain't,"  said  the  Inspector.  "  You  may  go  to  the 
devil  if  you  like." 

"  Thank  you,"  I  said.  "  Common  sense  and  courtesy  are  not 
bad  things  in  their  way,  don't  you  think  ?  I  shall  (now  I  have 
bullied  you  into  time  for  thinking)  be  delighted  to  inform  you 
that  there  is  only  one  staircase ;  that  I  shall  be  glad  to  guide  you 
to  that  room  ;  that  I  sincerely  hope  you  may  be  successful ;  and 
that  I  only  hope  you  will  do  the  thing  as  quietly  as  possible." 

My  thoughts  were  these.  Reuben,  thank  heaven,  was  safely 
away :  and  really,  when  I  came  to  think  of  the  annoyance  and 


176         THE  HILL  YAKS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

disgrace  that  Mr.  Samuel  Burton  had  caused  us,  I  looked  for- 
ward to  his  capture  and  re-transportation  with  considerable  in- 
difference, —  not  to  say  complacency.  Consequently  I  went 
willingly  with  them. 

As  we  came  to  our  door  we  came  upon  four  other  constables, 
and  one  by  one  we  passed  silently  into  the  old  hall.  As  I  passed 
our  sitting-room  door,  I  could  see  that  my  mother  and  Emma 
were  sitting  up  and  waiting  for  me,  and  immediately  went  on, 
considering  what  effect  the  disturbance,  so  soon  to  begin,  would 
have  on  them.  And  then,  going  as  silently  as  was  possible  up 
the  broad  staircase,  we  stood  all  together  in  the  dark,  outside 
Reuben's  room.     What  should  we  find  there  ? 

At  first,  it  appeared  nothing ;  for  the  door  being  opened,  the 
room  seemed  empty.  But  in  another  moment  that  magnificent 
ruffian  I  have  called  Bill  Sykes,  had  sprung  into  sight  from 
somewhere,  and  cast  himself  headlong  at  the  constables,  who 
were  blocking  up  the  door.  For  one  instant  I  thought  he  would 
have  got  through  and  escaped ;  but  only  for  one.  I  saw  him 
locked  in  the  deadly  grip  of  a  young  Irish  constable,  by  name 
Murphy,  and  then  I  saw  them  hurling  one  another  about  the 
room  for  a  few  seconds  till  they  fell  together,  crashing  over  a 
table.  They  were  down  and  up,  and  down  again,  so  very  quick- 
ly, that  no  one  had  time  to  interfere.  Sykes  had  his  life-pre- 
server hanging  at  his  wrist,  but  could  not  get  it  shifted  into  his 
hand  to  use  it,  and  the  constable  had  dropped  his  staff,  so  that 
the  two  men  were  struggling  with  no  more  assistance  than  Nature 
had  given  them.  Before  or  since  I  have  never  seen  a  contest  so 
terrible  as  between  this  Englishman  and  this  Irishman. 

And  after  the  first  few  seconds  no  one  saw  it  but  me.  The 
sound  of  the  table  falling  was  the  signal  for  a  rush  of  four  men 
from  the  inner  room,  who  had,  to  use  a  vulgar  expression, 
"  funked  "  following  the  valiant  scoundrel  Sykes,  but  who  now 
tried  to  make  their  escape,  and  found  themselves  hand  to  hand 
with  the  policemen.  So  that  Sykes  and  the  noble  young  Irish- 
man had  it  all  to  themselves  for  I  should  think  nearly  a  minute. 

For  in  their  deadly  grip,  these  two  did  so  whirl,  and  tumble 
down,  and  roll  over,  and  get  up,  and  fall  again,  that  I  could  not, 
for  full  that  time,  do  what  I  wanted.  It  was  clearly  a  breach  of 
the  Queen's  peace,  and  I  had  a  right  to  interfere  on  those  grounds 
even  ;  and,  moreover,  this  dog  Sykes,  in  this  very  room,  had  coolly 
proposed  the  murder  of  my  own  humble  self.  It  was  for  these 
reasons  that  I  wished,  if  possible,  to  assist  this  young  Irishman ; 
but  I  could  get  no  opportunity  for  what  seemed  to  me  a  long 
while.  At  last  they  were  both  on  their  feet  again,  locked  to- 
gether, and  I  saw  that  the  Irishman's  right  hand  was  clear,  and 
heard  it  come  crashing  in  with  a  sickening  rattle  among  Sykes's 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  177 

teeth.  Tlien  T  got  my  arm  round  Sykes's  neck,  and  in  spite  of 
his  furious  efforts  manniied  to  hold  him  fust  all  the  while  that 
IMurphy  —  bah!  —  it  is  too  terrible  —  until,  while  I  was  crying 
out  shame,  and  threatening  to  let  him  go,  the  burglar  and  I  fell 
together  to  the  ground,  and  ]Mur})hy  came  down  on  Sykes  heav- 
ily, breaking  three  of  his  ribs.  Yet,  in  spite  of  his  terrible  in- 
juries, in  spite  of  his  broken  jaw,  and  such  internal  injuries  as 
prevented  his  being  tried  with  the  rest,  this  dog,  whom  I  would 
not  save  from  hanging  to-morrow,  never,  in  spite  of  his  agony, 
gave  one  whine  of  pain  from  first  to  last.  When  we  thought  we 
had  secured  him,  and  a  constable  was  preparing  his  handcuffs,  he 
raised  his  horribly  battered  face,  and  burst  out  again,  striking 
Murphy  a  blow  behind  the  ear,  w'hich  made  the  poor  fellow  tot-' 
ter  and  reel,  and  come  headlons;  down  wnth  his  nose  bleedinjr, 
snoring  heavily,  quite  insensible.  It  took  the  whole  force  of  us 
even  then  to  secure  this  man,  though  he  was  so  desperately  in- 
jured. 

But  at  last  there  came  a  time  when  Sykes  lay  on  his  stomach 
on  the  floor,  conquered  and  silent,  but  unyielding;  when  Murphy, 
the  young  Irish  constable,  had  left  off  snoring  so  loud,  and  had 
made  three  or  four  feeble  efforts  to  spit ;  when  Bardolph  and  Pis- 
tol, "Avith  three  other  scoundrels,  —  for  whom  I  have  not  time  to 
find  imaginary  names,  and  whose  real  names,  after  a  long  series 
of  convictions  and  aliases,  were  unknown  to  the  police,  and  possi- 
bly forgotten  by  themselves  (for  there  are  limits  to  the  human 
memory),  —  were  walked  off  ironed  down  the  stairs;  when  the 
constables  had  lit  candles  and  the  room  was  light ;  when  there 
■was  no  one  left  in  it  after  the  struggle,  but  the  Inspector,  and 
Sykes,  with  the  one  man  who  watched  him,  and  Murphy,  with 
the  one  man  who  raised  his  head  and  wiped  his  mouth,  and  my- 
self, who  cast  furtive  glances  at  the  door  of  the  inner  room,  and 
my  father,  who  stood  in  the  door-way  in  his  shirt  and  trousers, 
pale  and  fierce,  and  who  said  :  — 

"  This  is  some  more  of  Samuel  Burton's  work.  This  has  come 
from  harboring  his  boy,  —  his  bastard  boy,  —  that  I  treated  like 
one  of  my  own.  I  knew  that  I  was  utterly  ruined  three  days 
ago.  But  I  thought  I  mii2;ht  have  been  left  to  die  without  dis- 
grace.  May  God's  curse  light  on  Samuel  Burton  night  and  day 
till  his  death  !     Have  you  got  him  ?  " 

"  We  have  n't  got  him,  Burton,"  said  the  Inspector.  "  But  I 
am  afraid  that,  in  spite  of  your  rather  clever  denunciation  of  the 
man  you  have  shielded  so  long  under  the  wing  of  your  respecta- 
bility, we  must  have  you.     You  are  in  custody,  please." 

This  was  the  last  and  worst  blow  for  my  father.  He  spoke 
nothing  for  an  instant,  and  then  said  hoarsely,  pointing  to  me, 
"  Are  you  going  to  take  him  ?  " 

8*  L 


178  THE  HILLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS. 

The  Inspector  said  no ;  that  he  did  not  want  me,  but  told  me 
to  be  very  cautious,  and  mind  what  I  was  about,  which  I  fully  in- 
tended to  do  without  his  caution.     In  fact,  I  was  doing  so  now. 

Where  was  my  cousin  Samuel  ?  When  would  the  Inspector 
notice  the  door  into  the  other  room  ?  And  would  my  father  ask 
me  to  get  his  coat?  I  was  very  anxious  about  this  last  matter. 
Either  I  must  have  gone  for  it,  or  have  excited  the  Inspector's 
suspicions ;  and  I  wanted  to  stay  where  I  was. 

In  a  few  moments  he  saw  the  door.  My  father  and  I  followed 
him  towards  it,  intending  to  give  him  our  assistance  should  there 
be  any  one  there.  He  flung  open  the  door,  and,  to  my  surprise, 
the  room  was  empty.  The  bed,  the  old  box,  the  lumber,  were  all 
gone.  And,  moreover,  the  hole  that  I  had  made  in  the  floor  three 
years  before  was  there  no  longer.  I  saw  at  once  that  the  scoun- 
drels had  by  means  of  that  hole  discovered  the  va.<t  depth  be- 
tween tlie  floor  and  the  ceiling  below,  and  had  utilized  it.  They 
had  cunningly  used  old  wood  too,  in  their  work  ;  and  so,  walking 
over  the  place  where  the  hole  had  been,  I  felt  no  less  than  four 
boards  loose  under  my  feet ;  and  then  I  came  to  the  conclusion 
that  no  less  a  person  than  Samuel  Burton  was  stowed  away 
below. 

I  ought  to  have  given  him  up.  And  I  should  like  to  have  given 
him  up ;  but  when  it  came  to  the  push  I  would  not.  My  heart 
failed  me.  I  stood  there  until  the  Inspector  turned  to  go  ;  and 
the  secret  of  the  loose  boards  was  left  undiscovered. 

If  I  had  known  that  no  one  was  under  there,  except  poor  trem- 
bling Njan,  I  might  have  given  him  up,  perhaps.  But  Samuel 
Burton  was  not  there  at  all.  Samuel  Burton  had  found  that 
William  Sykes  was  rather  too  clumsy  and  incautious  a  gentle- 
man to  have  anything  to  do  with,  and  had,  in  his  usual  manner, 
pitched  the  whole  gang  overboard.  That  is  to  say,  that,  seeing 
Reuben  safe  out  of  the  way,  he  had  dropped  a  line  to  Scotland 
Yard,  which  resulted  as  we  have  seen.  Samuel  himself  was 
somewhere  else,  at  far  different  work. 

I  was  furiously  indignant  at  my  father's  being  arrested.  Look- 
ing at  it  from  my  point  of  view,  it  seemed  to  me  to  be  a  perfectly 
unnecessary  insult.  I  suppose  it  could  not  be  helped.  One  thing 
was  certain,  however,  that  it  would  be  the  last  ounce  on  the  cam- 
el's back  to  him,  and  that  in  future  my  father  would  never  raise 
his  head  again  in  England. 

Two  things  remained  to  be  done,  —  the  one,  to  fetch  my  fath- 
er's coat  and  waistcoat  from  his  bedroom,  which  was  not  difficult ; 
and  the  other,  to  break  the  fact  of  his  arrest  to  my  motlier,  which 
was  easy  enough,  but  not  a  pleasant  task  by  any  means,  —  at  all 
events  in  anticipation. 

But  when  I  knocked  at  their  bedroom,  I  found  her  up  and 


THE   IIILLYARS  AND   THK   BURTONS.  170 

dressed,  with  his  things  ready  ;  and  not  only  her,  but  Emma. 
And  my  mother  only  said  cheerily,  "  Dear,  dear.  What  a  shame. 
Going  and  taking  of  lather.  There,  Jim,  my  dear,  take  him  his 
coat  and  wjustcoat;  and  here  's  the  old  hor«<e-rug.  And  we  'd  best 
sit  up  to  go  for  Mr.  Child  and  Mr.  Chancellor  in  the  morning  to 
bail  him.  There,  cut  away,  old  man.  They  ain't  took  you,  I 
know ;  for  I  listened  to  'em.  On  the  stairs  I  did.  God  bless  us, 
fother  will  be  in  a  taking.  We  must  have  him  home  by  break- 
fast, or  they  sausages  will  spile.  Cut  away,  or  he  '11  catch  his 
death." 

And  so  she  chattered  on,  and  packed  me  out  of  the  room.  But 
when  I  was  gone,  Emma  tells  me,  she  broke  out  into  wild  hys- 
terical wrath,  and  denounced  fiercely  and  wildly,  —  denounced 
Bill  Joyce  (as  she  irreverently  called  the  Inspector),  and  said 
that  marrying  eaves-droppers  and  earwigs  might  be  some  folks* 
line,  but  that  it  was  not  hers,  and  never  had  been.  She  said  how 
true  her  mstinct  was,  to  have  refused  to  say  anything  to  the  man 
twenty  years  before ;  though  she  thought  that  even  an  earwig 
mijiht  have  foi'irotten  in  that  time,  and  not  dis^jraced  her  husband 
like  that ;  and  so  she  went  on  until  she  got  quieter.  And  at  last 
she  said,  as  she  herself  tells  me,  and  not  Emma, 

"  May  God  forgive  me,  as  I  forgive  them  all.  May  God  for- 
give Samuel  Burton,  whom  I  met  on.  the  stairs  last  week,  and 
fainted  away  stone-dead  on  account  on.  He  has  been  an  unlucky 
man  to  us.  It 's  on  his  account  that  I  hate  the  name  of  Ilillyar. 
It  was  through  his  going  to  them,  child,  that  all  our  troubles  came 
about.  He  was  not  so  bad  till  he  got  corrupted  by  that  devil 
George  Ilillyar.  I  hate  the  name.  I  am  glad  of  one  thing  in 
this  break-up,  my  Emma ;  and  that  is  this :  we  shall  see  no  more 
of  this  Master  Erne.  You  are  a  chdd,  and  don't  know.  But  I 
tell  you,  that  the  time  is  come  for  you  to  part  with  him.  Better 
too  soon  than  too  late.    Red  eyes  are  better  than  a  broken  heart." 

My  mother  tells  me  that,  as  she  said  this,  she  looked  at 
Emma,  and  saw,  —  why,  many  things  ;  among  others,  that  it  was 
too  late.  Emma  was  sitting  opposite  her,  deadly  pale,  with  a 
worn,  wearied  look  on  her  face,  but  perfectly  quiet  and  self- 
possessed.     She  said, 

"  What  you  say  is  very  true,  dear.  He  and  I  must  part  for 
ever.     Perhaps,  mother,  if  this  had  not  happened,  I  might  have 

begged  to  have  a  little,  only  a  very  little  more  of  him;  for . 

But  now,  I  thank  God,  that  has  become  impossible.  This  busi- 
ness will  se{)arate  us  forever ;  and  it  is  best  so.  I  might  have 
fallen  in  love  with  him,  for  aught  we  know,  and  what  a  sad 
business  that  would  have  been ;  would  it  not  ?  May  I  see  him 
only  once, — just  to  wish  him  good-bye?  Only  once,  mother? 
O,  mother  !  mother !  only  once." 


180  THE  HILLYAES  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"No,"  said  my  mother,  promptly,  "that  is  all  fiddlefledee,  and 
stuff,  and  nonsense.  It 's  all  over  and  done,  and  dead  and  buried, 
and  I  won't  have  it  took  and  dug  up  again.  Take  and  go  along 
with  you,  I  tell  you." 

And  so  my  mother  scolded  her,  and  then  went  to  her  solitary 
bed,  —  solitary  the  first  time  for  twenty  years,  —  and  lay  down 
and  wept  wildly.  "  I  am  a  wicked,  stupid,  useless  woman,  oh, 
Lord,"  she  said.  "  But,  Lord  !  I  did  not  see  it.  And  it  is  to  be 
visited  on  her  head.  The  ftxther's  upon  the  children  ;  my  folly 
on  her.  But,  Lord!  it  will  break  her  heart,  —  my  own  Emma's 
heart.  I  seen  it  to-night,  and  I  know  it.  Oh,  Lord !  wicked 
woman  that  I  am,  let  the  judgment  fall  on  me,  Lord !  Let  me 
suffer,  but  take  her  to  thy  bosom  and  comfort  her." 
#  *  *  *  # 

We  shall  see  how  my  mother's  prayer  was  answered. 


CHAPTER    XXXIV. 

SIR   GEORGE'S  ESCRITOIRE. 

Poor  Reuben  Burton,  whose  only  crime  had  been  faithfulness 
to  the  scoundrel  he  called  father,  received  a  message  that  some 
one  wished  to  speak  to  him  at  a  certain  j)ublic-house,  and  was 
then  and  there  quietly  arrested  and  taken  to  London  ;  so  that 
during  the  events  which  followed  he  was  in  prison,  be  it  remem- 
bered. That  he  was  very  wrong  in  receiving  his  father  into  the 
Burtons'  house  at  Chelsea  we  cannot  say.  But  a  little  more 
resolution  would  have  saved  the  Burtons  an  infinity  of  trouble. 

The  Hillyars  wondered  where  he  was.  Erne  had  the  impu- 
dence to  propose  cutting  the  dam  to  search  for  his  body ;  and 
Sir  George  said,  loftily,  that  it  was,  in  his  opinion,  rather  con- 
temptible taste  in  Erne,  to  refer,  to  allude,  however  faintly,  to 
an  idiotic  and  highly  expensive  escapade,  which  ought  to  be  con- 
signed to  oblivion.  Erne  proposed  to  send  for  Joseph,  the  sec- 
retary, to  take  his  father's  words  down ;  and  so  they  had  one  of 
their  numerous  pleasant  squabbles,  —  the  one  among  them  all 
which  Erne  remembered  best,  —  while  Gerty  sat  and  laughed 
at  them. 

She  had  taken  the  baby,  and  a  pile  of  flowers,  and  had  sat  herself 
down  under  the  south  wall,  opposite  the  sun-dial,  just  outside  the 
drawing-room  window,  in  a  blazing  heat,  fit  to  roast  a  peacock ; 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  181 

and  there  she  was  now,  with  the  baby  and  the  flowers,  doing 
something  or  another  with  them,  though  whether  she  was  nursing 
tlie  llowers,  or  tying  up  the  baby,  it  was  hard  to  say.  Tiiere 
she  was,  as  happy  as  ever  a  little  mother  was,  baking  herself, 
and  eooing  in  her  infinite  contentment. 

Her  suggestion  about  lleuben  Burton,  which  she  made  in  per- 
fect faitli,  was  that  he  had  gone  into  the  township,  and  got  on  the 
burst.  This  brought  the  heartiest  roar  of  laughter  from  George 
that  we  have  ever  heflrd  hira  indulge  in.  Gerty  was  very  much 
delighted.  She  determined  that  she  had  said  something  very 
good,  and  must  try  it  again. 

The  old  butler  never  went  to  bed  before  Sir  George,  but  al- 
ways sat  up  in  one  of  the  easy-chairs,  in  the  third  or  smallest 
drawing-room,  with  the  door  open.  For  exactly  opposite  this 
door  was  the  door  of  Sir  George's  study,  and  so,  if  Sir  George 
went  to  sleep  in  his  chair,  as  he  very  often  did,  the  butler  could, 
after  a  reasonable  time,  go  in  and  wake  him  up,  and  take  him  to 
bed,  generally  in  a  very  stupid  state. 

But  very  often  the  butler  would  go  to  sleep,  and  his  candle 
would  go  out,  and  he  would  wake  in  the  dark,  wondering  where 
he  was,  and  would  go  in  to  rouse  Sir  George,  and  would  find 
that  Sir  George  had  gone  to  bed  hours  ago,  and  that  the  sparrows 
outside,  after  a  sleepy  night's  debate  of  it  (that  honorable  mem- 
ber the  nightingale  having  been  on  his  legs  for  nearly  four  hours, 
and  having  concluded  his  answer  to  the  Opposition  about  day- 
break), had  woke  up  and  divided,  and  had  all  got  into  the  wrong 
lobbies,  and  were  pitching  into  the  tellers :  in  other  words,  that 
it  was  broad  daylight.  And  this  very  night  he  went  to  sleep  in 
this  wav,  and  let  his  candle  burn  down. 

Sir  George  that  evening  had  complained  of  its  being  cold, 
which  it  most  certainly  was  not,  and  had  ordered  the  fire  to  be 
lit  in  his  study.  The  butler  in  the  little  drawing-room,  snoozing 
in  the  chair,  did  not  feel  cold.  But  Sir  George  sat  close  before 
the  blaze,  musing,  and  looking  into  the  coals,  thinking  intensely. 

It  may  have  been  this,  to  some  extent,  which  caused  certain 
things  to  happen  this  very  evening,  of  which  you  will  hear  im- 
mediately. We  cannot  say.  We  cannot  see  the  inside  of  a 
man's  head,  unless  we  open  it.  But  I  don't  think  it  was  a  good 
thing  for  Sir  George,  with  his  apoplectic  habit,  to  sit  close  before 
a  hot  fire,  thinking  intensely. 

While  we  are  writing  we  have  looked  into  the  fire,  and  all 
that  we  have  seen  there  was  Glen  Roy  and  Glen  Spean,  filled 
with  gleaming  ice,  and  the  little  double  summit  of  Mealderr}-, 
like  an  island  in  the  midst  of  it;  in  fact,  Lyell  has  been  an- 
swerable for  our  coal  formations  ;  in  the  which  thing,  there  is  a 
certain  sort  of  fitness.     To-morrow  it  will  be  some  one  else  who 


182  THE  HJLLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

is  answerable  for  the  vagaries.  To-morrow  in  the  fire,  one  may 
see  Messieurs  Assolant  and  Renan  receiving,  at  the  International 
Exhibition  of  1873,  at  Chicago  or  Charleston,  as  the  case  may 
be,  the  Aluminium  medal  for  having  achieved,  and  entirely  and 
utterly  mastered,  the  subjects  of  the  English  nation  and  the 
Christian  religion.  Or,  possibly  even,  M.  Thiers  in  the  act  of 
being  presented  with  a  new  pair  of  brass  spectacles  by  the  Empe- 
ror, for  his  accounts  of  the  battle  of  Waterloo,  and  other  battles ; 
which,  doubtless,  as  specimens  of  military  history,  stood  alone 
until  Cousin  Tom  and  Cousin  Jerry  fell  out  in  America. 

The  fact  is  that,  if  you  are  a  real  fire-worshipper,  you  can't 
control  the  fantastic  images  which  present  themselves  to  your 
retina,  wdien  you  have  your  brain  rather  full  of  blood,  and  are 
comfortably  looking  into  a  good  coal  fire.  As  in  the  beautiful  old 
optical  experiment  of  the  glass  globe  in  the  dark  (which  some 
wiseacres,  one  of  whom,  at  least,  ought  to  have  known  better, 
have  invested  with  supernatural  properties,  and  called  the  Magic 
Crystal),  you  see  what  you  are  thinking  about,  as  you  do  in 
dreaming,  though  in  an  inferior  degree. 

Sir  George  Hillyar  sat  and  looked  into  the  fire.  From  the 
first  moment  he  looked  there  he  saw  four  figures.  They  had 
been  with  him  nearly  all  day,  and  now  they  stared  at  him  out 
of  the  coal  chasms.  They  were  the  figures  of  his  two  wives, 
with  their  two  sons;  and,  as  he  looked  at  them,  he  thought 
deeply  and  intensely  over  the  results  of  his  life. 

How  well  he  rememberod  his  first  courtship.  What  a  noble, 
square-faced,  bold-eyed  young  fellow  he  was,  when  he  first  met 
Kate  Bertram  at  the  Lyniington  ball.  How  well  he  could  re- 
member her  that  first  night.  How  beautiful  she  was  ;  and  he  the 
madman,  seeing,  as  he  did,  the  wild  devil  in  her  eyes,  admired  it, 
and  was  attracted  by  it.  "  She  has  a  spice  of  the  devil  in  her," 
he  had  said  to  a  friend.     She  had  indeed. 

And  then  by  degrees  he  had  found  out  the  truth.  At  first  he 
had  laughed  at  the  horrid  idea ;  then  he  had  grown  moody  over 
it ;  then  he  had  entertained  it  sometimes,  and  at  last  he  ha  1 
taken  it  to  his  bosom  and  nursed  it.  She  had  never  loved  him. 
She  had  always  loved  that  rattling,  merry  sailor.  Lieutenant 
Somes.  Then  he  was  slowly  growing  to  hate  her;  until,  at  last, 
she  justified  his  hatred  by  dislionoring  him. 

And  then  her  son.  Had  he  been  just  to  George  ?  Had 
George's  wickedness  justified  all  the  neglect  he  had  received? 
Did  he,  the  father,  never  feel  something  like  satisfaction  at  the 
boy's  career,  as  furnishing  him  with  an  excuse  for  the  dislike  he 
had  always  felt  for  him  ?  And  how  much  of  that  reckless  de- 
S[)air  had  been  caused  by  this  very  same  neglect?  These  were 
terrible  questions.     A  few  months  ago  he  would  have  answered 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  183 

them  by  an  overwhelining  flood  of  self-justification  ;  but  death 
was  drawin<T  nearer,  and  after  death  the  judgment.  He  left 
them  unanswered. 

Was  he  doino;  ri^ht  in  disinheritinjr  Georjje  ?  Was  he  not 
cutting  ofl'  George's  last  hope  of  reform  by  impoverishing  him 
in  this  way  ?  lie  went  to  the  escritoire,  let  down  the  desk  of  it, 
and,  sitting  down  before  it,  took  out  his  will  and  began  reading 
it. 

Eight  thousand  a  year  to  Erne,  and  George  left  nearly  a  beg- 
gar, with  the  title  and  estaldishinent  to  keep  up.  It  was  not 
just.     He  said  aloud,  "I  fear  I  am  7iot  doing  ju.-tice  to  George. 

But  my  Erne "     He  laid  dow^n  the  will  again,  and  went 

once  more  and  sat  before  the  fire. 

Then  the  old  mati  lived  some  more  of  his  life  over  again. 
His  brain  was  very  active,  and  his  memory  most  wonderfully 
good  to-night.  He  felt  again  the  indignation,  the  shame,  and  the 
horror,  which  had  torn  him,  as  it  were,  to  pieces,  when  he  dis- 
covered that  his  wife  had  fled.  The  dislike  which  he  had 
allowed  to  grow  up  in  his  mind  towards  her  had  been  no  prep- 
aration for  that.  Could  he  ever  have  dreamt  that  she  would 
have  dared  ?  Could  he  ever  have  supposed  that  his  calm,  gen- 
tlemanly obstinacy  would  have  driven  her  to  commit  such  a 
nameless,  horrible  crime  (for  so  it  was  to  him)  as  to  leave  the 
husband  she  hated  for  the  man  she  loved?  The  agony  of 
reL'ollectin<»;  the  shame  of  that  dreadful  time  brought  the  blood 
humming  into  his  ears  ;  but  it  went  back  again,  and  throbbed 
itself  into  stillness  once  more. 

For,  passing  through,  in  his  fancy,  in  his  memory,  lightly 
enough,  and  yet  correctly,  the  period  whicli  followed  on  this,  the 
great,  horril^le  shame  of  his  life ;  he  went  through  a  time  of  dull 
despair ;  then  a  longer  one  of  godless  cynicism ;  and  then  a 
longer  one  yet,  of  dull  acquiescence  in  things  as  they  were ;  the 
time  when  he  believed  that  God  had  got  tired  of  him,  and  had 
put  him  aside  to  be  dealt  with  only  after  death.  And,  when  his 
imagination  had  taken  him  through  these  sad,  sad  old  times,  and 
he  had  felt,  let  us  hope  in  a  less  degree,  all  his  old  agonies  once 
more,  then  the  old  gentleman's  face  began  to  brighten,  and  his 
stern  set  mouth  to  relax  into  a  happy  smile. 

For,  wandering  on  through  the  wood  of  his  life,  —  a  wood, 
as  he  humbly  acknowledged,  full  of  strange  paths  (of  which  paths 
he  had  generally  taken  the  wrong  one),  tangled  with  brambles 
which  he  had  never  broken  througii,  —  going  on,  I  say,  through 
this  wood  of  his  life,  which  he  now  began  to  see  was  not  an 
honest  English  copse,  but  a  labyrinth,  in  which  he  had  never 
turned  the  right  way,  and  which  he  was  now  going  through  all 
again,  —  he  came  to  this  :  — 


184  THE  HILLYAES  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

He  began  to  remember  the  dear  old  scent,  —  far  dearer  to 
him,  and  some  others,  than  the  whiff  one  gets  opposite  Piesse 
or  Rimmel's  shop,  —  of  his  newly-loaded  gun.  Then  he  thought 
of  fresh  trodden  turnij^s  in  September.  Then  a  pheasant 
whirred  above  his  head ;  and  then  he  was  breast-liigh  among  the 
golden  fern  under  the  browning  hazels  ;  and  then,  rustling  ankle- 
deep  in  the  fallen  leaves,  came  Mary  Hawkins,  the  game-keep- 
er's daughter,  the  beautiful  and  the  good,  and  her  arm  was 
round  his  neck  and  her  breath  was  on  his  cheek,  and  she  said  to 
him,  "  It  is  not  too  late,  yet,  George.  God  has  sent  me  to  save 
you,  my  love." 

And  when  she  had  done  her  work  God  took  her ;  and  left 
in  her  place  Erne,  to  keep  him  from  despair.  Erne,  the  delight 
of  his  life,  the  gentle,  handsome  lad,  who  had  wound  himself  so 
round  his  heart.  He  could  not  take  this  money  from  Erne.  It 
might  be  unjust,  but  it  was  so  pleasant  to  think  of  Erne's  hav- 
inof  it. 

Yet  death  was  near,  and  might  come  at  any  time.  And  after- 
wards, —  some  justice  must  be  done  to  George.  Half,  say. 
There  was  the  will,  and  there  was  the  fire,  —  and  Erne,  —  and 

George  — 

***** 

The  butler  was  awakened  by  a  light,  a  sudden  light,  on  his 
face,  and  a  sound  which  seemed  to  him  to  be  one  of  those  ter- 
rible, inexplicable,  horrible  noises,  which  never  occur  in  life,  but 
which  are  sometimes  heard  towards  the  end  of  a  very  bad  dream, 
—  of  one  of  those  dreams  from  which  the  sleeper  awakes  him- 
self by  an  effort,  simply  from  terror  of  going  on  with  it  any 
further.  Sir  George  was  standing  in  the  corridor  before  him, 
with  a  candle  held  close  to  his  face,  and  a  drawn  sword  in  liis 
hand,  looking  down  the  pa'^sage.  The  poor  old  gentleman's  face 
was  horribly  distorted,  and  red ;  and,  before  the  old  butler  had 
time  to  stagger  to  his  feet,  the  noise  which  had  awakened  him 
came  again.  It  was  Sir  George  Hillyar's  voice,  for  the  butler 
saw  him  open  his  mouth  ;  but  the  tone  of  it  was  more  nearly 
like  the  ghastly  screech  of  an  epileptic  than  anything  the  old 
man  had  ever  heard.  He  saw  Sir  George  stand  for  an  instant, 
pointing  down  the  corridor  with  his  sword,  and  crying  out, 
"  Reuben  !  Reuben  !  Help  !  Help  !  Come  at  once,  and  I  will 
do  justice  to  all.  Reuben !  Reuben  ! "  And  then  he  saw  the 
poor  old  gentleman  go  staggering  down  the  passage,  with  his 
drawn  sword  in  his  hand ;  and  he  followed  him,  very  truly  sorry 
for  his  kind  old  master,  but  reflecting,  nevertheless,  that  all  folks, 
high  or  low,  must  go  off  somehow,  and  hoping,  even  in  the  few 
minutes  following,  that  his  summons  might  come  in  a  more 
peaceful  manner.     He  saw  clearly  that  Sir  George  had  got  his 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  TUE  BURTONS.  185 

first  stroke,  aiul  that  he  would  never  be  tlie  man  he  was  any 
more. 

''I  hope  he  am't  ahcrcd  his  will,"  said  the  sleepy  butler,  a 
red-hot  Erneist,  to  himself,  as  he  followed  poor  reelin^^  Sir 
George  down  the  passage.  "  Poor,  dear  old  master,  I  wonder  if 
be  really  is  ill  or  no.  May  be  there  ain't  much  the  matter  with 
him.     I  wish  I  dared  collar  him.     Wiiere  is  he  going  ?  " 

Sir  George,  meanwhile,  with  his  sword  in  bis  right  hand,  feel- 
ing the  wall  with  his  left,  which  held  the  candlestick,  staggering 
fearfully  from  time  to  time,  had  passed  from  passage  to  passage, 
until  he  had  come  to  the  kitchen.  Once  or  twice  at  first  he  had 
cried  out,  in  that  terrible  tone  we  have  noticed  before,  for  Reu- 
ben, but  latterly  had  been  silent. 

The  terrified  butler  saw  him  enter  the  kitchen.  The  next 
instant  there  was  a  heavy  fall,  and,  following  his  master  in,  he 
found  darkness  and  silence.  He  cried  out  for  help,  but  none 
came  for  a  few  moments ;  only  a  cat  in  the  butler's  pantry  hard 
by  knocked  down  some  glasses,  and  tried  to  break  out  of  the 
window  in  her  terror.  The  silence  was  temble.  He  shouted 
again,  and  this  time  roused  the  household.  When  lights  were 
brought,  they  found  Sir  George  lying  on  his  face  quite  dead, 
with  his  sword  and  his  candle  thrown  far  from  him  in  his  fall. 

When  they  had  carried  him  up,  the  first  thing  the  butler  did 
was  to  send  for  old  Morton,  the  keeper,  who  came  at  once. 

"  Dead ! "  he  said ;  "  he  ain't  dead,  I  tell  you.  Here,  Sir 
George,  sir,  rouse  up.  I  've  seen  him  this  way  twenty  times." 
He  quite  refused  to  believe  it.  He  kept  on  at  intervals  speak- 
ing to  the  dead  man.  Sometimes  he  would  give  him  his  title ; 
at  others  he  would  merely  call  him  George.  At  one  time  he 
would  be  angry  with  him ;  at  another  he  would  almost  whisper 
to  him,  and  remind  him  of  his  dogs  and  his  guns,  and  scenes 
which  the  closed  eyes  should  never  look  on  any  more ;  but  at 
last  he  did  nothing  but  sit  and  moan  wearily.  No  one  dared  in- 
terfere, until  the  new  Sir  George  Hillyar  came,  and  quietly  and 
kindly  led  him  away. 


186  THE  HILLYARS  AND  TUE  BURTONS. 


CHAPTER    XXXV. 

JAMES  BURTON'S  STORY:    MISS  BROWN'S  TROUBLES  COME  TO  AN 
END,   WHILE  MR.  ERNE  HILLYAR'S  FAIRLY  COMMENCE. 

Wellington  Row,  Kentish  Town,  is  a  row  of  semi-respect- 
able houses,  in  the  most  dreary  and  commonplace  of  all  the  dreary 
and  commonplace  suburbs  which  lie  in  the  north  of  London.  I 
should  suppose  that  the  people  who  inhabit  them  may  generally 
be  suspected  of  having  about  a  hundred  a  year,  and  may  certainly 
be  convicted,  on  the  most  overwhelming  evidence,  of  only  keep- 
ing one  servant. 

At  least  Mrs.  Jackson,  at  No.  7,  only  kept  one,  and  she  was  n't 
half  strong  enough  for  the  place.  Mrs.  Jackson  did  n't  mean  to 
say  that  she  was  n't  a  willing  girl  enough,  but  she  was  a  forgetful 
slut,  who  was  always  posturing,  and  running  after  the  men,  "  and 
so  at  times  it  was  'ard  to  keep  your  temper  with  her ;  indeed  it 
were,  I  do  assure  you." 

Now  the  history  of  the  matter  is  simply  this.  Martha  Brown, 
the  servant- of-all-work  ("slavey,"  as  a  snob  would  so  suggestive- 
ly have  called  her),  was  a  delicate  and  thoughtful  girl,  which 
things,  of  course,  are  serious  delinquencies  in  a  pot-scourer  and 
door-step  cleaner ;  but,  beside  and  above  these  crimes,  she  had 
committed  the  crowning  one  of  being  most  remarkably  pretty,  — 
which,  of  course,  was  not  to  be  tolerated. 

So  she  had  rather  a  hard  life  of  it,  poor  thing.  Mrs.  Jackson 
was  not,  on  the  whole,  very  kind  to  her ;  and,  being  a  she-dragon, 
not  well-favored  herself,  she  kept  such  watch  and  ward  over  her 
pretty  servant ;  accused  her  so  often  of  flirtations  which  were  en- 
tirely imaginary,  and  altogether  did  so  wrangle,  scold,  and  nag  at 
her ;  that  sometimes,  in  the  cold  winter's  morning,  wearily  scrub- 
bing the  empty  grate,  or  blowing  with  her  lips  the  smouldering 
fire,  the  poor  thing  has  bent  down  her  head  and  wished  that  she 
w^as  dead,  and  calmly  asleep  beside  her  mother  in  the  country 
church-yard. 

She  was  a  country-bred  girl,  an  orphan,  who  had  come  up  to 
London  to  "better"  herself  (Lord  help  her!),  had  taken  service 
in  this  dull,  mean  neighborhood,  and  was  now  fearful  of  moving 
from  sheer  terror  of  seeing  new  faces.  And  so  here  she  had 
been,  in  this  dreadful  brick-and-mortar  prison,  for  more  than  three 
years,  rising  each  morning  only  to  another  day  of  dull  drudgery 
of  the  lowest  kind.     Perhaps,  sometimes,  there  might  be  a  mo- 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  187 

ment  or  two  for  a  day-clream  of  the  old  place  she  loved.  But 
day-dreams  are  dangerous  for  a  slave  with  a  scoldm;^  mistress. 
The  cat  may  get  at  the  milk,  the  meat  may  burn  ;  and  then  wran- 
gle and  nag  for  an  hour  or  so,  and,  ah,  me !  it  is  all  over  — 

"  She  looks,  and  her  heart  is  in  heaven  :  but  they  fade, — 
The  mist  and  the  river,  the  hill  and  the  shade  ; 
The  stream  will  not  flow,  and  the  hill  will  not  rise, 
And  the  colors  have  all  passed  away  from  her  eyes." 

What  kept  her  up,  you  wonder  !  Only  hope.  And,  —  well ! 
well !  "  People  in  that  rank  of  life  don't  fall  iu  love  in  the  same 
way  as  we  do,"  said  a  thoroughly  good  fellow  to  me  the  other 
day.     I  beg  solemnly  to  assure  him  that  he  is  quite  mistaken. 

Every  time  when  anything  went  wrong  with  this  poor  little 
Cinderella,  as  soon  as  the  first  scalding  tears  were  wiped,  she  had 
a  way,  learnt  by  long  and  bitter  experience,  of  calling  up  a  gliost 
of  a  smile  on  her  poor  face.  She  would  say  to  herself,  "  Well, 
never  mind.     My  lioliday  comes  next  Sunday  three  weeks." 

I  beg  to  apologize  for  telling  one  of  the  most  beautiful  stories 
ever  written  (that  of  Cinderella)  over  again  in  my  clumsy  lan- 
guage. But  there  are  many  thousand  Cinderellas  in  London,  and 
elsewhere  in  England,  and  you  must  ask  Dr.  Elliotson  or  Dr. 
Bucknill  how  many  of  them  go  mad  every  year. 

And,  as  the  monthly  holiday  approached,  there  would  be  such 
a  fluttering  of  the  poor  little  heart  about  the  weather,  —  for  it  is 
quite  impossible  to  look  one's  best  if  it  rains,  and  one  likes  to 
look  one's  best,  under  certain  circumstances,  you  know,  —  and 
such  a  stitching  together  of  little  bits  of  finer}'-,  that  the  kettle 
used  to  boil  over  sadly  often,  and  unnoticed  coals  to  t^ll  into  the 
dripping-pan,  and  wrap  the  meat  in  the  wild  splendors  of  a  great 
conflagration ;  and  there  would  be  more  scolding  and  more  tears. 
However,  all  the  scolding  and  all  the  tears  iu  the  world  can't  pre- 
vent Sunday  morning  from  coming ;  and  so  it  came.  And  this 
was  a  rather  special  Sunday  morning,  —  for  there  was  a  new  bon- 
net with  blue  ribbons,  a  rather  neat  thing ;  and  so  she  was  rather 
anxious  for  a  fine  day. 

But  it  rained  steadily  and  heavily.  It  was  very  provoking. 
The  people  were  going  into  church,  by  the  time  she  reached 
Clerkenwell  Prison,  and  it  still  rained  on :  but  what  was  worse 
than  that,  there  was  nobody  there ! 

Up  and  down  the  poor  child  walked,  under  the  gloomy  prison 
wall,  in  the  driving  rain.  It  is  not  an  inspirating  place  at  any 
time,  that  Clerkenwell  Prison-wall,  as  you  will  agree  if  you  no- 
tice it  tiie  next  time  you  go  by.  But,  if  you  walk  for  an  hour  or 
more  there,  under  a  heavy  disappointment,  in  a  steady  rain,  wait- 
ing for  some  one  who  don't  come,  you  will  find  more  melancholy 
still. 


188  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

The  people  came  out  of  church,  and  the  street  was  empty  once 
more.  Then  there  were  tears,  but  they  were  soon  followed  by 
sunshine.  The  spoilt  bonnet  was  nothing  now ;  the  wet  feet  were 
forgotten  ;  the  wretched  cheap  boots,  made  of  brown  paper  sewn 
together  with  rotten  thread,  the  dreary  squalor  of  the  landscape, 
the  impertinencies  of  passing  snobs,  were  nothing  now ;  —  every- 
thing was  as  it  should  be.  For  there  was  the  ring  of  an  iron 
heel  on  the  pavement,  and  the  next  minute  a  young  fellow  came 
hurling  round  the  corner,  and  then  — 

Well !  Nobody  saw  us  do  it  but  the  policeman,  and  he  was 
most  discreet.  He  looked  the  other  way.  He  had  probably  done 
the  same  thinor  himself  often  enouo-h. 

1  had  run  all  the  way  from  Chelsea,  and  had  almost  given  up 
all  hopes  of  finding  her ;  so,  in  the  first  flutter  of  our  meeting, 
what  between  want  of  breath,  and  —  say,  pleasurable  excite- 
ment —  I  did  not  find  time  to  tell  her  that  my  news  was  bad : 
nay,  more  than  bad  —  terrible.  I  had  n't  the  heart  to  tell  her  at 
first,  and  when  I  had  found  the  heart,  I  could  n't  find  the  courage. 
And  so  I  put  it  off  till  after  dinner.  She  and  I  dined  at  the  same 
sliop  the  last  time  we  were  in  England,  and  oh !  the  profound 
amazement  of  the  spirited  proprietor  at  seeing  a  lady  in  thick 
silks  and  heavy  bracelets  come  in  to  eat  beef!  We  had  to  tell 
him  all  about  it ;  we  had,  indeed. 

At  last  it  all  came  out,  and  she  was  sitting  before  me  with  a 
scared,  wild  face.  My  cousin  Reuben  and  my  father  had  been 
arrested,  but  my  father  immediately  released.  Sir  George  Hill- 
yar  was  dead,  and  Joe's  heart  was  broken. 

"  The  grand  old  gentleman  dead ! " 

"  Yes.  Got  up  in  the  night  out  of  his  chair,  wandered  as  far 
as  the  kitchen,  and  fell  dead ! " 

"  How  very  dreadful,  dear." 

There  was  something  more  dreadful  coming,  however.  I  had 
to  break  it  to  her  as  well  as  I  could.  So  I  took  her  hand  and 
held  it,  and  said,  — 

"  And  now  we  are  utterly  ruined,  and  the  forge  fire  is  out." 

"  But  it  will  be  Ut  up  again,  dear.  You  and  your  father  have 
your  skill  and  strength  left.     You  will  light  the  forge  fire  again." 

"Yes,"  I  answered,  "but  it  will  be  sixteen  thousand  miles 
away.     In  Australia,  dear." 

Now  I  had  done  it.  She  gave  a  low  piteous  moan,  and  then 
she  nestled  up  close  to  me,  and  I  heard  her  say,  "  Oh,  I  shall 
die !  I  know  I  shall  die  !  I  can't  bear  it  without  you,  dear.  I 
could  n't  have  borne  it  so  long  if  I  had  n't  thought  of  you  night 
and  day.  Oh,  I  hope  I  shall  die.  Ask  your  sister  Emma  to 
pray  God  to  take  me,  dear." 

"  Why,  you  dou't  think  I  am  going  without  you,  do  you  ? "  I 
hurriedly  asked. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  189 

"  You  must  go,"  she  answered,  crying. 

"  I  know  I  must ;  and  you  must  come  too.     Are  you  afraid  ?  " 

"  How  could  I  be  afraid  witli  you,  darling.  But  you  7nnst  go, 
and  I  must  stay  behind  and  die." 

"  Never  mind  about  that,  love.     Are  you  afraid  ?  '' 

"  Not  witli  you." 

"  Very  well,  then.  You  '11  have  the  goodness  to  get  a  recom- 
mendation from  the  parson,  as  an  assisted  emigrant,  ai  once.  If 
you  can't,  you  must  pay  your  passage,  and  that  '11  be  a  twister. 
Now  go  home  and  give  warning," 

'"  I  could  n't  do  it,  dear,"  she  said,  with  her  sweet,  honest  eyes 
beginning  to  sparkle  through  her  tears,  and  her  mouth  beginning 
to  form  a  smile. 

"Could  n't  do  what?" 

"  Give  warning.  I  should  fall  down  in  a  dead  faint  at  her 
feet." 

"  Nonsense,"  I  said.  "  Have  it  out  the  minute  she  opens  the 
door." 

"  She  won't  open  it.  I  go  in  the  airy  way,  and  as  soon  as  she 
hears  me  come  in  she  comes  down  and  has  a  blow  up  at  me." 

"  Can't  you  get  in  a  wax,  old  girl  ?  "  I  asked  with  an  air  of 
thoughtful  sagacity,  for  I  saw  the  difficulty  at  once. 

Old  girl  thought  this  perfectly  hopeless  ;  and,  indeed,  I  thought 
so  too. 

"  Then  I  tell  you  what.  Don't  give  her  time  to  begin.  Get 
between  her  and  the  door,  and  says  you,  '  If  you  please,  ma'am, 
—  if  you  please,  ma'am,  —  I  wish  to  give  you  a  month's  warn- 
ing.' " 

"  Month's  warning,"  repeated  she. 

"  And  then  you  take  and  hook  it  up  stairs." 

"  Hook  it  up  stairs,"  repeated  she. 

"  You  have  n't  got  to  sa?/  that  to  her.  That 's  what  you  Ve 
got  to  do,  When  you  come  to  the  word  '  warning,'  say  it  out 
clear,  and  cut  off." 

At  last,  after  many  trials  and  repetitions,  I  got  her  to  give  me 
warning  in  a  reasonably  audible  tone  of  voice  ;  after  which  I  saw 
her  home.  She  made  a  mess  of  it  after  all,  as  I  thought  she 
would  all  alonof.  She  let  the  woman  o;et  between  her  and  the 
door  ;  and  so  had  to  stay  and  be  scolded.  But  it  "  eventuated  " 
rather  well ;  for  she  did  get  into  a  "  wax "  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  and  gave  the  woman  as  o;ood  as  she  brouorht.  Astonished 
at  her  own  suddenly  acquired  audacity,  and  perfectly  unused  to 
fighting,  she  committed  the  mistake,  so  common  among  young 
fighters,  (who  have  never  been  thrashed,  and  therefore  don't  know 
the  necessity  of  quarter,)  of  hitting  too  hard.  The  end  of  which 
was  that  she  was  turned  out  the  next  day  for  a  nasty,  impudent, 


190  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

careless,  sleepy,  aggravating,  and  ungrateful  little  audacious  hus- 
sey ;  which  was  a  grand  success,  —  a  piece  of  luck,  wliich  even 
I,  with  my  highly  sanguine  temperament,  had  never  dared  to 
hope  for. 

While  I  was  yet  standing  in  the  street,  and  making  the  re- 
markable discovery  that  I  was  wet  through,  and  rather  thinking 
that  it  must  have  been  raining  cats  and  dogs  ever  since  I  had 
been  out,  some  one  came  and  laid  his  hand  upon  my  shoulder, 
and,  looking  up,  I  saw  Erne  Hillyar.  He  told  me  that  he  had 
come  to  find  me,  and  then  he  told  me  something  else,  —  some- 
thing which  made  me  sit  down  on  a  muddy  door-step  in  the  rain, 
and  stare  at  him  with  blank  amazement  and  horror. 

Erne  Hillyar  was  a  homeless  beggar. 


CHAPTER    XXXVI. 

LE  ROI  EST  MORT,  —  VIVE  LE  ROI. 

"I  CANNOT  conceal  from  you  the  fact,  my  dear  Sir  George  Hill- 
yar," said  Mr.  Compton,  the  morning  after  the  funeral,  "  that  your 
father's  death  at  this  moment  is  a  very  serious  catastrophe,  indeed." 

"  Very  serious  to  me,  I  suppose  ?  "  said  George. 

"  Very  much  so  indeed.  It  is  my  belief  that,  if  your  father 
had  lived  another  week,  he  would  have  altered  his  will  in  your 
favor." 

"  You  are  quite  sure  that  he  has  not  done  so  ?  " 

"  Quite  sure.  He  would  never  have  done  it  without  my  as- 
sistance." 

"  Do  you  hear  that,  you  —  you  —  Lady  Hillyar  ?  "  said  George, 
with  a  savage  snarl,  turning  to  Gerty,  who  was  sitting  nursing 
the  baby. 

She  looked  so  very  scared  that  old  Compton  interposed.  "  My 
dear  Sir  George,  —  now  really,  —  her  ladyship  is  not  strong,  — 

"  Silence,  sir,"  replied  George  ;  "  I  am  master  here,  and  allow 
no  one  to  interfere  between  me  and  my  wife.  Leave  the  room, 
Lady  Hillyar,  and  ask  your  fellow-conspirator  against  your  hus- 
band, —  the  gamekeeper's  grandson,  my  worthy  half-brother,  — 
if  he  will  be  so  condescending  as  to  be  so  obliging  as  to  come 
and  hear  this  precious  will,  which  he  and  the  lawyer  seem  to 
have  concocted  between  them,  read  out." 

"  Sir  George,  I  will  not  be  insulted ;  you  will  remove  your 
papers  to  some  other  office." 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BUETTONS.  191 

"  Deliglited,  I  am  sure,"  said  George,  with  an  insolent  sneer  ; 
for  the  ohl  devil  of  temper  was  raging  full  career  within  him, 
and  there  was  no  help  by.  "  It  won't  be  worth  much  to  any  one. 
I  shall  insuve  this  house  over  its  value,  and  then  burn  the  God- 
forgotten  old  place  down.     I  don't  care  what  I  do." 

"  Sir  George,  for  God's  sake  !  "  said  Compton,  shocked  to  see 
that  the  devil  had  broken  loose  once  more  after  such  a  long 
sleep.  "  Suppose  any  one  heard  you,  and  there  was  a  fire  after- 
wai'ds ! " 

"  I  don't  care,"  said  George,  throwing  himself  into  the  chair  in 
front  of  the  escritoire,  in  which  his  father  had  sat  the  night  be- 
fore he  died.  "  Oh,  here  is  the  noble  Erne,  who  plots  and  con- 
spires to  rob  his  brother  of  his  inheritance,  and  then  sneaks  night 
and  day  after  my  wife  to  prevent  her  getting  the  ear  of  my 
father." 

"  George,  George,  you  are  irritated  ;  you  don't  mean  what  you 
say." 

"  Not  mean  it ! " 

"  You  can't,  you  know ;  you  are  a  gentleman,  and  you  can't 
accuse  me  of  such  a  thing  as  that." 

"  I  will !  I  do  !  "  said  George. 

"  Then  I  say  that  it  is  false.  That  is  all.  /  do  not  wish  to 
continue  this  discussion  now  ;  but  it  is  false." 

"  False  ! "  shouted  George,  rising  and  advancing  towards  Erne. 
"  Is  it  false  that  I  have  sat  watching  you  so  many  months,  al- 
ways interfering?  Is  it  false  that  I  have  sat  and  cursed  yon 
from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  ?  Perhaps  you  will  say  it  is  false 
that  I  curse  you  now,  —  curse  the  day  you  were  born,  —  curse 
the  day  that  my  father  ever  caught  sight  of  your  low-bred  drab 
of  a  mother." 

George  had  come  too  close,  or  had  raised  his  hand,  or  some- 
thing else, —  no  man  knows  how  it  began;  but  he  had  hardly 
uttered  these  last  words  when  he  and  his  brother  were  at  one 
another's  throats  like  tigers,  and  the  two  unhappy  young  men, 
locked  together  in  their  wicked  struggle,  were  trying  to  bear  one 
another  down,  and  uttering  those  inarticulate  sounds  of  fury 
which  one  hears  at  such  times  only,  and  which  are  so  strangely 
brutelike. 

Before  Compton  had  time  to  cry  "  Murder  "  more  than  once, 
George  was  down,  with  his  upper-lip  cut  open  by  a  blow  from 
Erne's  great  signet-ring.  He  rose  up,  pale  with  deadly  hatred, 
and  spoke.  His  wrath  was  so  deep  that  cursing  availed  him 
nothing.  He  only  said  in  a  low  voice,  "  I  will  never,  never  for- 
give that  blow  as  long  as  I  live.  If  I  ever  get  a  chance  of  re- 
turning it,  remember  it  and  tremble.  Master  Erne." 

Erne  had  not  had  time  to  cool  and  get  ashamed  of  himself  yet 
He  merely  returned  his  brother  a  look  of  fierce  scorn. 


192  TIIK   HILLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS. 

"  Now,"  said  George,  "  let  us  have  tliis  precious  will  read,  and 
let  me  turn  him  out  of  tlie  house ;  I  shall  have  that  satisfaction. 
Have  you  the  will  ?  " 

"  It  is  in  here,"  said  Mr.  Compton.  "  This  is  the  key  of  the 
escritoire.  Sir  George  always  kept  it  here,  becau>e  he  had  a 
fancy  that  in  some  desperate  extremity  he  might  wish  to  put  in 
a  codicil  in  a  hurry.  We  shall  find  it  in  this  morocco  box.  God 
above  us  !  Wliat  is  this  ?  Let  me  sit  down :  I  am  a  very  old 
man  and  can't  stand  these  shocks.    There  is  no  will  at  all  here ! " 

"  No  will  ?  "  said  both  of  the  brothers  together. 

"  Not  a  vestige  of  one,"  replied  Compton,  looking  suddenly  up 
at  George. 

George  laughed.  "  I  have  n't  stolen  it,  old  fox.  If  I  had 
known  where  it  was,  I  would  have.  In  an  instant.  In  a 
minute." 

"  I  don't  think  you  have  taken  it,  Sir  George,"  said  Compton. 
"  Your  behavior  would  have  been  different,  I  think.  But  the 
will  was  here  the  day  before  Sir  George  died,  I  hnow^  and  it  is 
not  here  now." 

"  Look  !     Search  !     Hunt  everywhere,  confound  you  ! " 

"  I  will  do  so.  But  I  have  a  terrible  fancy  that  your  father 
destroyed  this  will,  and  was  struck  down  before  he  had  time  to 
make  another.  I  have  a  strong  suspicion  of  it.  This  will  has 
been  here  for  ten  years,  and  never  moved.  My  opinion  is  that 
there  is  no  will." 

He  made  some  sort  of  a  search,  —  a  search  he  knew  to  be  hope- 
less, —  while  George  stood  and  looked  on  with  ghastly  terror  in 
his  face.  Erne  had  grown  deadly  pale,  and  was  trembling.  At 
last  the  search  was  over,  and  Compton,  sitting  down,  burst  into  a 
violent  fit  of  sobbing. 

George  spoke  first.  "  Then,"  said  he,  in  a  voice  which  rattled 
ill  his  throat,  "  everything  is  entirely  and  unreservedly  mine  ?  " 

"  I  fear  so." 

"  Every  stick  of  timber,  every  head  of  game,  every  acre  of 
land,  every  farthing  of  money,  —  all  mine  without  dispute  ?  " 

"  If  we  can  find  no  will.     And  that  we  shall  never  do." 

"  You  hav^e  heard  what  he  has  said,"  said  George  to  Erne, 
wiping  his  mangled  lips,  "and  you  heard  what  I  said  just  now. 
This  house  is  mine.  Go.  I  will  never  forget  and  never  forgive. 
Go." 

Erne  turned  on  his  heel,  and  went  w^ithout  a  word.  The  last 
he  remembers  was  seeinsj  his  brother  stand  lookino;  at  him  with 
his  face  all  bloody,  scowling.  And  then  he  was  out  of  the  house 
into  the  sunshine,  and  all  the  past  was  a  cloud  to  him. 

God  had  punished  him  suddenly  and  swiftly.  He  very  often 
does  so  with  those  He  loves  best. 


i> 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  193 


CHAPTER    XXXVII, 

JAMES   BURTON'S   STORY:    ERNE'S  NURSE. 

"  Will  God  ever  forgive  me,  Jim  ?  I  wish  ray  right  hand 
had  been  withered  before  I  did  it.  I  shall  never  forget  that  bleed- 
ing face  any  more.  Oh,  my  brother  !  my  brother !  I  would  have 
loved  you  ;  and  it  has  come  to  this  !  " 

And  so  he  stood  moaning  in  the  rain  before  me,  in  the  blank, 
squalid  street;  and  I  sat  on  the  step  before  hira,  stunned  and 
stupid. 

''  I  shall  never  be  forgiven.  Cain  went  out  from  the  presence 
of  the  Lord.  Look,  his  blood  is  on  my  right  hand  now !  How 
could  I?     How  could  I?" 

What  could  I  say  ?  I  do  not  know  even  now  what  I  ought  to 
have  said.  I  certainly  did  not  then.  I  was  very  sorry  at  his 
having  struck  his  brother,  certainly ;  but  seeing  him  stand  home- 
less and  wet  in  the  rain  was  more  terrible  to  me.  I  did  not  for 
one  instant  doubt  that  what  he  said  was  perfectly  true,  as  indeed 
it  was  ;  and  even  then  I  began  to  ask  of  myself,  What  will  become 
of  him  ? 

"  Oh,  father !  father !  I  wish  I  was  with  you  !  I  shall  never 
join  you  now.  He  used  to  say  that  he  would  teach  me  to  love 
my  mother  when  we  met  her  in  heaven  :  but  we  can  never  meet 


now,  —  never  —  never 


This  last  reflection  seemed  to  my  boy-mind  so  very  terrible 
that  I  saw  it  was  time  to  do  or  say  something ;  and  so  I  took  his 
arm  and  said, — 

"  Come  home,  master,  and  sleep." 

"  Home !  my  old  Jim  ?     /  have  no  home." 

"  As  long  as  I  have  one  you  have  one.  Master  Erne,"  I  an- 
swered, and  he  let  me  take  him  away  with  me. 

It  was  a  weary  walk.  I  had  to  tell  him  of  our  misfortunes,  of 
our  ruin,  of  Reuben's  ruin,  of  Joe's  terrible  disappointment,  and 
of  the  sad  state  of  mind  into  which  he  had  fallen,  —  of  the  cold 
forge,  of  the  failing  food.  I  had  to  tell  him  that  the  home  I  was 
askinij  him  to  share  with  me  had  nothinf;  left  to  adorn  it  now  but 
love ;  but  that  we  could  give  him  that  still.  It  eased  his  heart  to 
hear  of  this.  Once  or  twice  he  said,  "  If  I  had  only  known  !  "  or 
''  Poor  Reuben  ! "  And,  when  I  saw  that  he  was  quieter,  I  told 
him  about  our  plans ;  and  as  I  did  so,  I  saw  that  he  listened  with 
a  startled  interest. 

9  M 


194  THE  HILLYARS   AND  THE   BURTONS. 

I  told  him  that  Mr.  Compton  had  advanced  money  to  take  us 
all  to  Cooksland,  and  that  we  went  in  a  month,  or  less ;  and  so  I 
went  on,  thinking:  that  I  had  interested  him  into  fonrettin!X  his 
brother  for  a  time.  But,  just  as  we  turned  into  Church  Street, 
he  said :  — 

"  She  mu>t  never  know  it.  I  shall  die  if  she  knows  it.  I  shall 
go  mad  if  she  knows  it." 

"What?" 

"Emma  must  never  know  that  I  struck  my  brother;  remember 
that." 

I  most  willingly  agreed,  and  we  went  in. 

The  dear  comfortable  old  place  was  nearly  dismantled,  but 
there  was  the  same  old  hearth,  still  warm.  Our  extreme  pov- 
erty was,  so  to  speak,  over,  but  it  had  left  its  traces  behind  still. 
My  father  looked  sadly  grave ;  and  as  for  my  mother,  though  sit- 
ting still,  —  as  her  wont  was  on  Sunday,  —  I  saw  her  eye  ram- 
bling round  the  room  sometimes,  in  sad  speculation  over  lost 
furniture.  As  I  came  in  I  detected  her  in  missing  the  walnut 
secretary,  at  which  my  father  used  to  sit  and  make  up  his  ac- 
counts. She  apologized  to  me  also  silently,  with  only  her  eyes, 
and  I  went  and  kissed  her.  A  great  deal  may  pass  between  two 
j)eople,  who  understand  one  another,  without  speaking. 

Emma  was  sitting  in  the  centre  of  the  children,  telling  them  a 
story ;  and  she  came  smiling  towards  Erne,  holding  out  her  hand. 
And  when  he  saw  her  he  loved  so  truly,  he  forgot  us  all ;  and, 
keeping  his  head  away  from  her,  he  said :  "  No  !  no !  not  that  hand. 
That  one  is  —  I  have  hurt  it.  You  must  never  take  that  hand 
again,  Emma.     It 's  bloody." 

I,  foreseeing  that  he  would  say  too  much,  came  up,  took  his 
hand,  and  put  it  into  hers.  But  when  she  saw  his  face,  —  saw 
his  pale  scared  look,  —  she  grew  pale  herself,  and  dropped  his 
hand  suddenly.  And  then,  putting  together  his  wild  appearance, 
and  the  words  he  had  just  used,  she  grew  frightened,  and  went 
back  with  a  terrified  look  in  her  face,  without  one  word,  and  gath- 
ered all  the  children  around  her  as  if  for  protection. 

"  You  see  even  she  flies  from  me.  Let  me  go  out  and  hide  my 
shame  elsewhere.  I  am  not  fit  for  the  company  of  these  innocent 
children.     I  had  better  go." 

This  was  said  in  a  low  tone  apart  to  me.  My  affection  for  him 
showed  me  that  the  events  of  the  morning  had  been  too  heavy  a 
blow  for  him,  and  that,  to  all  intents  and  purposes,  poor  Erne  was 
mad.  There  was  an  ugly  resolute  stare  in  the  great  steel-blue 
eyes  which  I  had  never  seen  before,  and  which  I  hope  never  to 
see  again.  I  was  terrified  at  the  idea  of  his  going  out  in  his  pres- 
ent state.  He  would  only  madden  himself  further ;  he  was  wet 
and  shivering  now,  and  the  rain  still  came  down  steadily.  I 
could  see  no  end  to  it. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  195 

"  Come  up  to  sleep,  IMaster  Erne." 

**  Sleep !  and  dream  of  George's  bloody  face  ?  Not  I.  Let 
me  go,  old  boy." 

"  Please  don't  go  out,  .''ir,"  said  I  louder,  casting  a  hurried 
look  of  entreaty  to  Emma,  who  could  hear  nothing,  but  was 
wonderin!?  what  was  the  matter,  "  It  will  be  your  death." 

"  Yes,  that  is  what  I  want.     Let  me  go." 

"Won't  Freddy  go  and  kiss  his  pretty  Master  Erne?"  said 
Emma's  soft  voice,  suddenly  and  hurriedly.  "  Won't  Freddy  go 
and  look  at  his  pretty  watch  ?    Run  then,  Fred,  and  kiss  him." 

Thus  enjoined,  Fred  launched  himself  upon  Erne,  and  clasped 
his  knee.  It  was  with  an  anxious  heart  that  I  raised  him  up,  and 
put  him  into  Erne's  arms.     It  was  an  experiment. 

But  it  was  successful.  The  child  got  his  arm  round  his  neck, 
and  his  little  fingers  twined  in  his  hair ;  and,  as  I  watched  Erne, 
I  saw  the  stare  go  out  of  his  eyes,  and  his  face  grow  quieter  and 
quieter  until  the  tears  began  to  fall;  and  then,  thinking  very 
properly  that  I  could  not  mend  matters,  I  left  Erne  alone  with 
the  child  and  with  God. 

I  went  and  thanked  Emma  for  her  timely  tact,  and  put  her  in 
possession  of  the  whole  case ;  and  then,  finding  Erne  quiet,  I 
made  Fred  lead  him  up  to  bed.  It  was  high  time,  for  he  was 
very  ill,  and  before  night  was  delirious. 

My  mother  gave  herself  up  to  a  kind  of  calm  despair  when 
she  saw  what  had  happened,  and  that  Erne  would  be  an  inmate 
of  the  house  for  some  time,  and  that  of  necessity  Emma  must 
help  to  nurse  him.  She  spoke  to  me  about  it,  and  said  that  she 
supposed  God  knew  best,  and  that  was  the  only  comfort  she  had 
in  the  matter. 

In  his  delirium  he  was  never  quiet  unless  either  she  or  I  were 
at  his  side.  For  five  days  he  was  thus.  The  cold  he  had  caught, 
and  the  shock  of  excitement  he  had  sustained,  had  gone  near  to 
kill  him ;  but  it  was  his  first  illness,  and  he  fought  through  it, 
and  began  to  mend. 

My  mother  never  said  one  word  of  caution  to  Emma.  She 
knew  it  would  be  useless.  The  constant  proximity  to  Erne  must 
have  been  too  much  for  any  efforts  which  Emma  might  have 
made  against  her  passion.  /  was  glad  of  it.  Mj  father  merely 
went  gravely  about  his  work ;  was  as  respectful  and  attentive 
to  Erne  as  ever ;  while  my  mother  had,  as  I  said  before,  resigned 
herself  to  despair,  and  left  the  whole  matter  in  the  hands  of 
God. 

Poor  Joe  !  His  was  a  bitter  disappointment.  Secretary  to  a 
member  of  Parliament  :  and  now,  —  Joe  Burton,  the  hump- 
backed son  of  the  Chelsea  blacksmith ;  all  his  fine  ambition  scat- 
tered to  the  winds.     He  sat  silently  brooding  now  for  hours  ;  for 


196  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

a  week  I  think  he  scarcely  spoke.  Sometimes  he  would  rouse 
himself,  and  help  at  what  there  was  to  do,  as  a  matter  of  duty ; 
but  as  soon  as  he  could  he  sat  down  again,  and  began  eating 
his  heart  once  more. 

I  need  not  say  that  we  were  all  very  gentle  and  careful  with 
him.  We  had  somehow  got  the  notion  that  all  our  sufferings 
were  as  nothing  to  poor  Joe's.  I  wonder  who  put  that  notion 
afloat.  I  wonder  whether  Joe  unconsciously  did  so  himself,  by 
his  tacit  assumption  that  such  was  the  case.  I  think  it  very 
likely.  But  Joe  was  never  for  an  instant  selfish  or  morose ;  un- 
less his  want  of  cheerfulness  was  selfish.  He  certainly  might 
have  assisted  at  that  family  harmony  I  spoke  of;  but  then  he 
was  at  Stanlake  while  we  were  learning  the  tune  at  home. 


CHAPTER    XXXVIII. 

SIR  GEORGE  HILLYAR  IS  WITNESS  FOR   CHARACTER. 

And  dark  over  head  all  the  while  hung  the  approaching  cloud. 
Reuben,  Sykes,  and  the  rest  of  them  had  been  remanded,  and 
the  day  drew  nigh  when  Reuben  would  be  committed  for  trial. 

The  question  was,  How  far  was  he  really  complicated  with 
Sykes  and  the  gang?  That  he  took  his  father  in,  and  lodged 
him,  and  hid  him,  could  not  go  very  far  against  him  :  nay,  would 
even  stand  in  his  favor.  Then  his  character  was  undeniably 
good  until  quite  lately.  And,  thirdly  and  lastly,  he  had  been 
absent  at  Stanlake  for  a  long  while.  These  were  the  strong 
points  in  his  favor.  Nevertheless,  since  his  father  had  made  his 
most  unfortunate  appearance,  there  was  very  little  doubt  that 
Reuben  had  been  seen  very  often  in  the  most  lamentably  bad 
company.     It  was  hard  to  say  how  it  would  go. 

At  last  the  day  came  on.  I  was  the  only  one  of  the  family 
who  went,  and  I  left  laughing,  promising  to  bring  Reuben  home 
to  dinner ;  but  still  I  was  very  anxious,  and  had  tried  to  make 
up  my  mind  for  the  very  worst.  There  was  a  considerable  crowd 
in  the  police-court ;  and,  as  I  was  trying  to  elbow  my  way  as  far 
forward  as  I  could,  to  hear  what  case  was  on,  I  felt  a  hand  on 
my  shoulder,  and  looking  round,  saw  Sir  George  Hillyar. 

"  Come  out  of  court  with  me,"  he  said  ;  "  I  wish  to  speak  with 
you.     The  case  will  not  be  on  this  half-hour." 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  197 

I  wondered  why  he  should  care  so  much  about  it;  but  I 
obeyed,  and  we  went  out  together,  and  walked  to  a  quiet  spot. 

"What  is  your  opinion  about  this  matter?  AVIuit  do  his  as- 
sociates say,  —  these  thieves  and  prostitutes  among  wliom  he  has 
been  brought  up  ?    What  do  they  say  about  his  chance  ?" 

lie  said  this  with  such  fierce  eagerness  that  I  swallowed  the 
implied  insult  and  answered,  — 

"  Six  and  half-a-dozen,  sir.  I  know  him  to  be  innocent,  but 
who  is  to  prove  him  so  ?  " 

"  Why  did  not  your  father  prevent  this  ? "  he  went  on.  in  a 
milder  tone.  "  Why  did  not  you  prevent  it  ?  Your  father  is  a 
man  of  high  character.  Why  did  he  not  take  care  of  this  poor  de- 
serted orphan  ?    Christian  charity  should  have  made  him  do  so." 

"  Nobody  could  have  gone  on  better  than  Reuben,  sir,"  I  an- 
swered, "  until  his  father  came  back  three  months  ago." 

I  was  looking  at  him  as  I  said  this,  and  I  saw  that  he  grew 
from  his  natural  pallor  to  a  ghastly  white. 

"  Say  that  again." 

"  Until  his  father  came  back  some  three  months  ago,  —  his 
father,  Samuel  Burton,  who,  I  have  heard  say,  was  valet  to  your 
honor." 

"  Treacherous  dog ! "  I  heard  him  say  to  himself.  And  then 
aloud,  "  I  suppose  you  do  not  know  where  this  man  Burton  is, 
do  you?" 

"  That  is  not  very  likely,  sir,  seeing  that  he  was  the  leader  in 
that  very  business  for  which  poor  Reuben  has  been  took." 

"  Come,"  he  said ;  "  let  us  go  back.  Bring  Reuben  to  me 
after  it  is  all  over." 

When  we  got  in  again  the  case  was  on.  It  seemed  so  very 
sad  and  strange  to  me,  I  remember,  to  see  poor  Reuben  in  the 
dock ;  the  moment  I  saw  him  there,  I  gave  him  up  for  lost.  It 
appeared  that  a  grand  system  of  robbery  had  been  going  on  for 
some  time  by  a  gang  of  men,  some  of  whom  were  in  the  dock 
at  present,  —  that  their  head-quarters  had  been  at  a  house  in 
Lawrence  Street,  kept  by  an  Irish  woman,  Flanagan,  now  in 
custody,  and  a  woman  Bardolph,  alias  Tearsheet,  alias  Hobart 
Town  Sail,  still  at  large,  and  in  a  garret  at  the  top  of  the  house 
known  as  Church  Place,  which  was  occupied  by  the  prisoner 
Burton.  The  leader  of  the  gang  had  been  one  Samuel  Burton, 
alias  Sydney  Sam,  not  in  custody ;  the  father  of  the  prisoner 
Burton.  The  principal  depot  for  the  stolen  goods  appeared  to 
have  been  in  Lawrence  Street  (I  thought  of  the  loose  boards, 
and  trembled),  for  none  had  been  found  at  Church  Place,  which 
seemed  more  to  have  been  used  as  a  lurking-place,  —  the  char- 
acter of  James  Burton,  the  blacksmith,  the  occupier  of  the  house, 
standing  high  enough  to  disarm  suspicion.    The  prisoner  Sykes, 


198  THE  HILLYARS  AND   THE  BURTONS. 

a  desperate  and  notorious  burglar  and  ruffian,  had  been  convicted 
X  times  ;  the  prisoners  Nym,  Bardolph,  and  Pistol  y  times.  There 
was  no  previous  conviction  against  the  prisoner  Burton. 

The  other  prisoners  re.-erved  their  defence ;  but  Mr.  Compton 
had  procured  for  Reuben  a  small  Jew  gentleman,  who  now  politely 
requested  that  Reuben  might  be  immediately  discharged  from 
custody. 

On  what  grounds  the  worthy  magistrate  would  be  glad  to  know. 

"  On  the  grounds,"  burst  out  the  little  Jew  gentleman,  with 
blazing  eyes  and  writhing  lips,  "  that  his  sole  and  only  indiscre- 
tion was  to  give  shelter,  and  house-room,  and  food,  and  hiding,  to 
his  own  father ;  when  that  father  came  back,  at  the  risk  of  his 
life,  sixteen  thousand  miles,  to  set  eyes  on  his  handsome  lad  again 
once  more  before  he  died,  —  came  back  to  him  a  miserable,  broken, 
ruined,  desperate  old  convict.  He  ought  not  to  have  receired 
him,  you  say.  I  allow  it.  It  was  grossly  indiscreet  for  him  to 
have  shared  his  bed  and  his  board  with  his  poor  old  father.  But 
it  was  not  criminal.  I  defy  you  to  twist  the  law  of  the  land  to 
such  an  extent  as  to  make  it  criminal.  I  defy  you  to  keep  my 
client  in  that  dock  another  ten  minutes." 

The  people  in  the  court  tried  a  cheer,  but  I  was  afraid  of  irri- 
tating the  magistrate,  and  turned  round  saying,  "  Hush  !  Hush  ! " 
and  then  I  saw  that  Sir  George  Hillyar  was  gone  from  beside  me. 

"  Tlie  old  fault,  Mr.  Marks,"  said  the  quiet,  good-natured  mag- 
istrate to  Reuben's  frantic  little  Jew  gentleman.  "  Starting  well 
and  then  going  too  far.  If  I  had  any  temper  left  after  twenty 
years  on  this  bench,  I  should  have  answered  your  defence  by 
sending  your  client  for  trial.  However,  I  have  no  temper  ;  and, 
therefore,  if  you  can  call  a  respectable  witness  to  character,  I 
think  that  your  client  may  be  discharged." 

The  little  Jew  gentleman  was  evidently  puzzled  here.  His 
witnesses  —  I  was  one  —  were  all  to  prove  that  Reuben  had  not 
been  at  home  for  the  last  two  months.  As  for  witnesses  to  charac- 
ter, I  imagine  that  he  thought  the  less  that  was  said  about  that  the 
better.  However,  a  Jew  is  never  nonplussed  (unless  one  Jew 
bowls  down  another's  wicket,  as  in  the  case  of  Jacob  and  Esau)  ; 
and  so  the  little  Jew  lawyer  erected  himself  on  his  tip-toes,  and, 
to  my  immense  admiration,  and  to  the  magistrate's  infinite  amuse- 
ment, called  out  promptly,  with  a  degree  of  impudence  I  never 
saw  equalled,  one  of  the  greatest  names  in  Chelsea. 

There  was  subdued  lauGjhter  all  through  the  court.  "  The  grav- 
ity  of  the  bench  was  visibly  disturbed,"  said  the  gentlemen  of  the 
flying  pencils.  But,  before  the  rustle  of  laughter  was  subdued, 
our  brave  little  Jew  was  on  tip-toe  again,  with  a  scrap  of  paper 
in  his  hand,  shouting  out  another  name. 

"  Sir  George  Hillyar." 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  199 

Sir  George  ITillyar,  at  the  invitation  of  the  worthy  magistrate, 
walked  quietly  up  and  took  lii:^  seat  on  the  bench.  He  was  un- 
derstood to  say,  "  I  am  a  magistrate  in  the  colony  of  Cooksland, 
and  still  hold  my  ajipointment  as  Inspector  of  Police  for  the  Bum- 
bleoora  district.  The  wretched  man,  Samuel  Burton,  whose  name 
has  been  mentioned  as  leader  of  this  gang  of  thieves,  was  once 
my  valet.  He  robbed  my  late  father,  and  was  transported.  The 
young  man,  Burton,  the  prisoner,  his  son,  is  a  most  blameless  and 
excellent  young  man,  whose  character  is,  in  my  opinion,  beyond 
all  suspicion.  He  was  a  great  favorite  with  my  late  father ;  and 
I  am  much  interested  in  his  welfare  myself.  Beyond  the  crim- 
inal indiscretion  of  saving  the  man  he  calls  his  father  from  star- 
vation, I  doubt  if  there  is  anything  which  can  be  brought  against 
him." 

This  clenched  the  business.  Reuben  was  discharged,  while  the 
others  were  sent  for  trial.  I  was  mad  with  joy,  and  fought  my 
way  out  through  the  crowd  to  the  little  door  by  which  I  thought 
Keuben  would  come.  I  waited  some  time.  First  came  out  the 
little  Jew  gentleman,  in  a  state  of  complacency,  working  his  eye- 
brows up  and  down,  and  sucking  his  teeth.  After  him,  by  a  long 
interval.  Sir  George  Hillyar ;  whom  I  took  the  liberty  to  thank. 
But  no  Reuben. 

Sir  George  stayed  with  me,  and  said  he  would  wait  till  the 
young  man  came  out.  "We  waited  some  time,  and  during  that 
time  we  talked. 

"  I  suppose,"  said  Sir  George,  "  that  Mr.  Erne  Hillyar  has  been 
to  see  you." 

I  told  him  that  Erne  had  come  to  us  on  the  evening  next  after 
the  funeral,  —  that  he  had  been  seized  with  a  fever,  had  been  at 
death's  door,  and  was  now  getting  slowly  better. 

"  I  suppose  you  know,"  he  said,  "  that  he  is  a  penniless  beg- 
gar?" 

"  We  know  that  he  has  no  money,  Sir  George ;  and  we  know 
that  he  will  never  ask  you  for  any,"  said  I,  like  a  fool,  in  my  pride 
for  Erne. 

"  Well,  then,  I  don't  know  that  we  need  talk  much  about  him. 
If  you  are  nursing  him  and  taking  care  of  him  on  the  specula- 
tion of  my  ever  relenting  towards  him,  you  are  doing  a  very  silly 
thing.  If  you  are,  as  I  suspect,  doing  it  for  love,  I  admire  you 
for  it ;  but  I  swear  to  God,  that,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned,  you 
shall  have  no  reward,  further  than  the  consciousness  of  doing  a 
good  action.     He  is  quite  unworthy  of  you.    Is  he  going  to  die  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  Then  he  will  marry  your  sister.  And  a  devilish  bad  bargain 
she  will  make  of  it.     I  wonder  where  Reuben  is." 

"  He  must  come  soon,  sir." 


200  THE  HILLYAKS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  I  suppose  so.  I  wish  he  would  make  haste.  Minrl  you,  you 
young  blacksmith,  I  am  not  a  good  person  myself,  but  I  know 
there  are  such  things ;  and  Compton  says  that  you  Burtons  are 
good.  I  have  no  objection.  But  I  warn  you  not  to  be  taken  in 
by  Mr.  Erne  Hillyar,  for  of  all  the  specious,  handsome  young 
dogs  who  ever  walked  the  earth  he  is  the  worst.  I  wonder  where 
Reuben  can  be." 

It  was  time  to  see.  I  was  getting  anxious  to  fight  Erne's  bat- 
tle with  his  brother ;  but  what  can  a  blacksmith  do  with  a  baro- 
net, without  preparation  ?  I  gave  it  up  on  this  occasion,  and  went 
in  to  ask  about  Reuben. 

I  soon  got  my  answer ;  Reuben  had  gone,  twenty  minutes  be- 
fore, by  another  door ;  we  had  missed  him. 

"  He  has  gone  home,  sir,  to  our  place,"  I  said  to  Sir  George ; 
and  so  I  parted  from  him.  And,  if  you  were  to  put  me  on  the 
rack,  I  could  not  tell  you  whether  I  loved  him  or  hated  him. 
You  will  hate  him,  because  I  have  only  been  able  to  give  his 
words.  But  his  manner  very  nearly  counterbalanced  his  words. 
Every  sentence  was  spoken  with  a  weary,  worn  effort ;  sometimes 
his  voice  would  grow  into  a  wrathful  snarl,  and  it  would  then 
subside  once  more  into  the  low,  dreamy,  distinct  tone,  in  which  he 
almost  always  spoke.  I  began  to  understand  how  he  won  his 
beautiful  wife.  A  little  attentive  animation  thrown  into  that  cy- 
nically quiet  manner  of  his  —  coming,  too,  from  a  man  who,  by 
his  calm,  contemptuous  bearing,  gave  one,  in  spite  of  one's  com- 
mon sense,  the  notion  that  he  was  socially  and  intellectually  miles 
above  one  —  would  be  one  of  the  highest  compliments  that  any 
woman  could  receive. 

But  when  I  got  home,  no  Reuben  was  there.  He  did  not  come 
home  that  night,  nor  next  day,  nor  for  many  days.  Sir  George 
Hillyar  sent  for  me,  and  I  had  to  tell  him  the  fact.  "  He  is  asham- 
ed to  see  my  father  after  what  has  happened,"  I  said.  And  Sir 
George  said  it  was  very  vexing,  but  he  supposed  it  must  be  so. 
Still,  days  went  on,  and  we  heard  nothing  of  him  whatever. 


THE  IIILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  201 


CHAPTER    XXXIX. 

UNCLE  BOB  SURPRISES  ERNE.  W 

There  is  very  little  doubt  that  Emma  would  have  done  her 
duty  better  had  she  kept  away  from  Erne  altogether.  It  would 
have  been  fairer  to  him.  She  had  prayed  hard  to  my  mother  to 
be  allowed  a  little,  only  a  little  more,  of  him,  and  my  mother  had, 
very  wisely,  refused  it.  Now  Providence  had  given  him  back  to 
her,  —  had  put  the  cup  to  her  hps,  as  it  were  ;  and  she,  knowing 
her  own  strength,  —  knowing  by  instinct  that  she  had  power  to 
stop  when  she  pleased,  and  knowing  also  that,  even  if  her  own 
strength  fliiled,  the  cup  would  be  taken  from  her  in  a  very  few 
days,  —  had  drunk  deeply.  She  had  utterly  given  herself  up  to 
the  pleasure  of  his  presence,  to  the  delight  of  to-day,  refusing  to 
see  that  the  morrow  of  her  own  making  must  dawn  sooner  or 
later. 

My  mother  and  I  thought  that  it  was  all  over  and  done,  and 
that  there  was  no  good  in  trying  to  stop  matters  in  any  way  ; 
and  we  were  so  far  right.  My  mother  would  gladly  have 
stopped  it ;  but  what  could  she  do  ?  —  circumstances  were  so 
much  against  her.  Busy  as  she  was,  morning  and  night,  she 
must  either  have  left  Erne,  during  his  recovery,  to  take  care  of 
himself,  or  leave  him  and  Emma  alone  a  great  deal  together. 
She,  as  I  said  before,  abandoned  the  whole  business  in  despair. 
I  was  intensely  anxious  for  tlie  whole  thing  to  go  on  ;  I  saw  no 
trouble  in  the  way.  I  thought  that  Emma's  often-expressed 
determination  of  devoting  her  whole  life  to  poor  Joe  was  merely 
a  hastily-formed  resolution,  a  rather  absurd  resolution,  which  a 
week  in  Erne's  company  would  send  to  the  winds.  I  encour- 
aged their  being  together  in  every  way.  I  knew  they  loved  one 
another  :  therefore,  I  argued,  they  ought  to  make  a  match  of  it. 
That  is  all  /  had  to  say  on  the  subject. 

''  God  send  us  well  out  of  it,"  said  my  mother  to  me  one 
night. 

'•  Why  ?  "  I  answered.     "  It 's  all  right." 

"  All  right  ?  "  she  retorted.  '•  Sitting  in  the  window  together 
all  the  afternoon,  with  their  hair  touching;  —  all  right!  Lord 
forgive  you  for  a  booby,  Jim ! " 

"  ^yell !  "  I  said,  "  what  of  that  ?  —  Martha  and  me  sat  so  an 
hour  yesterday,  and  you  sat  and  see  us.     Now,  then  !  " 

"  You  and  Martha  ain't  Erne  and  Emma,"  said  my  mother 
oracularly. 

.0  * 


202  THE  HILLYARS   AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  You  don't  look  me  in  the  face,  mother,  and  say  that  you  dis- 
trust Erne  ?  " 

"  Bless  his  handsome  face,  —  no  !"  said  my  mother,  with  sud- 
den animation.  "  He  is  as  true  as  steel,  —  a  sunbeam  in  the 
house.  But,  nevertheless,  what  I  say  is,  Lord  send  us  well  out 
of  it ! " 

I  acquiesced  in  that  prayer,  though  possibly  in  a  different 
sense. 

"  You  have  power  over  her,"  resumed  my  mother.  "  You  are 
the  only  one  that  has  any  power  over  her.  Why  don't  you  get 
her  away  from  him  ?  " 

This  I  most  positively  refused  to  do. 

"  You  'd  better,"  said  my  mother,  "  unless  you  want  her  heart 
broke."     And  so  she  left  me. 

"  Plammersmith,  I  want  you,"  called  out  Erne,  now  almost 
convalescent,  a  short  time  afterwards  ;  "  I  want  you  to  come  out 
with  me.  I  want  you  to  give  me  your  arm,  and  help  me  as  far 
as  Kensington." 

I  agreed  after  a  time,  for  he  was  hardly  well  enough  yet. 
But  he  insisted  that  the  business  was  important  and  urgent,  and 
so  we  w^ent.  And,  as  we  walked,  he  talked  to  me  about  his 
future  prospects. 

"  You  see,  old  boy,  I  have  n't  got  a  brass  farthing  in  the 
world.  I  have  nothing  but  the  clothes  and  books  you  brought 
from  Stanlake.  And,  —  I  am  not  wicked :  I  forgive  anything 
there  may  be  to  forgive,  as  I  hope  to  be  forgiven,  —  but  I 
could  n't  take  money  from  him." 

1  thought  it  my  duty,  now  he  was  so  much  stronger,  honestly 
to  repeat  the  conversation  Sir  George  had  held  with  me,  on  the 
day  when  Reuben  was  discharged  from  custody. 

"  That  is  his  temper,  is  it  ?  "  said  Erne.  "  Well,  God  forgive 
him !     To  resume  :  do  you  see,  I  am  hopelessly  penniless." 

I  was  forced  to  see  that.  I  had  my  own  plan,  though  I  could 
not  broach  it. 

"  In  the  middle  of  which,"  said  Erne,  "  comes  this  letter. 
Read  it." 

"  My  dear  Nephew,  Mr.  Erne  :  —  From  a  generous  com- 
munication received  from  the  new  and  highly-respected  bart., 
in  which  my  present  munificent  allowance  is  continued,  I  gather 
that  differences,  to  which  I  will  not  further  allude,  have  arisen 
between  yourself  and  a  worthy  bart.  whom  it  is  unnecessary  to 
mention  by  name.  Unless  I  am  misinformed  this  temporary 
estrangement  is  combined  with,  if  not  in  a  great  degree  the 
cause  of,  pecuniary  embarrassments.  Under  these  circum- 
stances, I  beg  to  call  your  attention  to  the  fact  that  I  have  now 


THE  IIILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  203 

been  living  for  many  years  on  the  bounty  of  your  late  fatbor, 
and  have  saveil  a  considerable  sum  of  money.  In  case  £500 
Avould  be  of  any  use  to  you,  I  should  rejoice  in  your  acceptance 
thereof.  I  oive  your  late  father  more  than  that,  as  a  mere  mat- 
ter of  business.  If  agreeable  to  the  feelings  of  all  parties,  a 
personal  interview  is  requested. 

"  Your  affectionate  uncle, 

"Robert  Hawkins." 

«  Well,  what  do  you  think  of  that  ?  " 

"  I  tliink  very  well  of  your  uncle,  and  I  should  take  the 
money." 

"  I  must.  But  think  of  my  disreputable  old  uncle  turning  up 
at  such  a  time  as  this.  Do  you  know  my  father  was  always 
fond  of  him  ?  I  wonder  what  he  is  like  !  I  have  never  seen 
him." 

"  Did  n't  you  tell  me  he  drank,  sir  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  Drink !  "  said  Erne.     "  He  has  been  drunk  nineteen  years." 

I  was  lost  in  the  contemplation  of  such  a  gigantic  spree,  and 
was  mentally  comparing  the  case  of  Erne's  Uncle  Bob  with  that 
of  a  young  lady  in  Cambridgeshire,  who  had  at  that  time,  ac- 
cording to  the  Sunday  papers,  an  ugly  trick  of  sleeping  for  six 
or  seven  months  at  a  stretch,  and  thinking  what  a  pity  it  was 
that  two  such  remarkable  characters  did  n't  make  a  match  of  it 
and  live  in  a  caravan ;  moreover,  supposing  them  to  have  any 
family,  what  the  propensities  of  that  family  would  be,  —  whether 
they  would  take  to  the  drinking  or  to  the  sleeping,  or  to  both,  — 
concluding,  that  whichever  they  did,  they  would  be  most  valu- 
able properties ;  in  short,  rambling  on  like  my  mother's  own 
son :  wdien  we  came  to  the  house  in  Kensington,  and  were  im- 
mediately admitted  into  the  presence. 

This  mysterious  Uncle  Bob  was  a  vast,  square-shouldered, 
deep-chested  giant  of  a  man,  who  was  even  now,  sodden  with 
liquor  as  he  was,  really  handsome.  Erne  had  often  told  me  that 
his  mother  had  been  very  beautiful.  Looking  at  this  poor,  lost, 
deboshed  dog  of  a  fellow,  I  could  readily  understand  it.  Erne 
said  he  had  been  drunk  nineteen  years ;  if  he  had  n't  told  me 
that,  I  should  have  guessed  five-and-twenty. 

Never  having  had  any  wits,  he  had  not  destroyed  them  by 
drinking;  and  having,  I  suppose,  wound  himself  up  for  the 
inters'iew  by  brandy  or  something  else,  he  certainly  acted  as 
sensibly  as  could  have  been  expected  of  him  twenty  years  be- 
fore. Besides,  God  had  given  this  poor  drunkard  a  kind  heart ; 
and  certainly,  with  all  his  libations,  he  had  not  managed  to  wash 
that  away.  In  our  Father's  house  there  are  many  mansions  ; 
I  wonder  if  there  is  one  for  him ! 


204  THE  HILLYAES  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

At  the  time  of  his  sister's  marriage,  he  had  just  been  raised  to 
the  dignity  of  underkeeper.  Life  had  ceased  with  the  poor  fel- 
low then.  He  was  of  an  old  family,  and  the  old  rule,  that  the 
women  of  a  family  last  two  generations  longer  than  the  men,  was 
proved  true  here.  He  had  shown  signs  of  the  fiimily  decadence 
while  his  sister  showed  none.  She  was  vigorous,  beautiful,  and 
vivacious.  He  was  also  handsome,  but  unenergetic,  with  a  ten- 
dency to  bad  legs,  and  a  dislike  for  female  society  and  public 
worship.  Drink  had  come  as  a  sort  of  revelation  to  him.  He 
had  got  drunk,  so  to  speak,  on  the  spot,  and  had  stayed  so.  His 
life  had  ceased  just  as  he  was  raised  to  the  dignity  of  cleaning 
Sir  George  Hillyar's  first  season  guns,  nineteen  years  before ; 
and  we  found  him  sitting  before  the  fire,  rubbing  one  of  those 
very  guns  with  a  leather  on  this  very  afternoon. 

He  rose  when  we  went  in,  and  made  a  low  bow  to  Erne,  and 
then  stood  looking  at  him  a  few  seconds.  "  You  are  very  like 
your  mother,  sir,"  he  said  gently ;  "  very  like." 

"  My  dear  Uncle  Bob,"  said  Erne,  "  I  am  come  according  to 
appointment  to  speak  to  you  about  the  noble  and  generous  offer 
of  yours." 

"  Do  you  accept  it,  sir  ?  " 

"  I  do  most  thankfully,  my  dear  uncle.  I  would  speak  of  it  as 
a  loan,  but  how  can  I  dare  do  so  ?  I  have  been  brought  up  in 
useless  luxury.     I  know  nothing." 

"  You  '11  get  on,  sir.  You  '11  get  on  fast  enough,"  said  the 
poor  fellow,  cheerfully.  "  Please  come  and  see  me  sometimes, 
sir.  You  're  like  my  sister,  sir.  It  does  me  good  to  hear  your 
voice.  Hers  was  a  very  pleasant  one.  We  had  a  happy  home 
of  it  in  the  old  lodge,  sir,  before  Sir  George  came  and  took  her 
away.  /  saw  what  had  happened  the  night  he  came  into  our 
lodge,  after  eight  o'clock,  and  stood  there  asking  questions,  and 
staring  at  her  with  his  lip  a-trembling.  /  saw.  I  did  n't  think, 
—  let 's  see  :  I  was  talking  about .  Ah  !  Sam  Burton  know- 
ing what  he  knew  and  not  trading  on  it,  —  no,  not  that,  —  I  mean 
I  hope  you  '11  come  and  see  me  sometimes.  If  my  head  was  to 
get  clear,  as  it  does  at  times,  I  could  tell  you  all  sorts  of  things." 

"  My  dear  uncle,  there  is  but  small  chance  of  our  meeting  for 
years.     I  am  going  to  Australia." 

"  To  Australia ! "  I  bounced  out,  speaking  for  the  first  time. 

"  Certainly,"  said  Erne ;  "  I  can  do  nothing  here.  And,  be- 
sides," he  added,  turning  his  radiant  face  on  mine,  "  I  found 
something  out  last  night." 

Poor  Uncle  Bob  gave  Erne  a  pocket-book,  and,  after  many 
affectionate  farewells,  we  departed.  I  was  very  thoughtful  all 
the  way  home.  "  Found  something  out  last  night ! "  Could  it 
be  all  as  I  wished  ? 


THE  niLLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  205 


CHAPTER    XL. 

THE  LAST  OF  THE  CHURCH-YARD. 

"And  so  it  is  really  true  that  the  ship  sails  this  day  week, 
Emma?"  said  Erne  Ilillyar  to  Emma  Burton,  laughing.  "Mat- 
tel's are  coming  to  a  crisis  now,  hey  ?  " 

"  Yes,  they  are  coming  to  a  crisis,"  said  Emma,  quietly.  "  Only 
one  week  more." 

'-  Only  one  week  more  of  old  England,"  said  Erne,  "  and  then 
four  months  of  wandering  waves." 

"  It  wnll  soon  be  over,"  said  Emma. 

"  Oh,  very  soon,"  said  Erne.  "  They  tell  me'  that  the  voyage 
passes  like  a  peaceful  dream.  There  are  some  who  sail  and  sail 
on  the  sea  for  very  sailing's  sake,  and  would  sail  on  forever. 
The  old  Greeks  feared  and  wearied  of  the  sea.  We  English 
love  it  as  our  mother.  Yes,  I  think  there  are  some  of  us  who 
would  love  to  live  at  sea." 

"  They  leave  their  cares  on  shore,"  said  Emma. 

"  They  are  like  you  and  me,  Emma.     They  have  no  cares." 

"  Have  we  none  ?  " 

"  I  have  none.  I  leave  everything  humbly  in  the  hands  of 
God.  I  have  been  a  great  sinner,  but  He  has  forgiven  me.  He 
has  been  very  merciful,  Emma." 

"  1  hope  He  will  have  mercy.  I  hope  He  will  lay  no  burden 
on  any  of  us  greater  than  we  can  bear.  But,  at  all  events,  they 
say  that  duty  and  diligence  will  carry  one  through  all." 

"  You  are  disturbed  and  anxious,  Emma,  at  this  breaking  up 
of  old  associations.  Come  with  me.  Let  us  walk  together  down 
to  the  old  church-yard  :  it  will  be  the  last  time  for  many  years,  — 
possibly  forever." 

"  Yes,  I  will  come  with  you.  It  will  be  for  the  last  time  for- 
ever.    Let  us  come." 

So  they  two  went  down  together  to  the  old  church-yard,  and 
stood  in  the  old  place  together,  looking  over  the  low  wall  on  to 
the  river.  The  summer  evening  was  gathering  glory  before  it 
slept  and  became  night.  And  beyond  the  bridge,  westward,  the 
water  and  the  air  above  were  one  indistiui^uishable  blaze  of  crim- 
son  splendor.  At  their  feet  the  tide  was  rushing  and  swii-ling 
down  to  the  sea. 

They  were  quite  alone,  —  in  perfect  solitude  among  the  tombs. 
Erne  was  standing,  as  of  old,  on  the  grave  of  the  Hillyar  girl, 


206  THE  HILLYAES  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

SO  often  mentioned  before ;  and  Emma  was  beside  him,  touching 
him,  but  looking  ftway  across  the  sweeping  river. 

And  so  they  stood  silent  for  a  long  while.  How  long  ?  Who 
measures  lovers'  time  ?  Who  can  say  ?  But  the  sun  was  dead, 
and  only  a  few  golden  spangles  of  cloud  were  blazing  high  aloft  m 
the  west,  when  Emma  felt  that  Erne  had  turned,  and  was  look- 
ing at  her.  And  then  her  heart  beat  fast,  and  she  wished  she 
was  dead,  and  it  was  all  over.  And  she  heard  him  say,  with  his 
breath  on  her  cheek,  — 

"  What  beautiful  hair  you  have !  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Here  is  a  long  tress  fallen  down  over  your  shoulder.  May  I 
loop  it  up  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  May  I  kiss  you  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  it  will  soon  be  over." 

"  My  darling,  —  my  own  beautiful  bird  !  " 

There  was  no  answer  to  this,  but  a  short  sob,  which  was  fol- 
lowed by  silence.  Then  Erne  drew  her  closer  to  him,  and  spoke 
in  that  low,  murmuring  whisper  which  Adam  invented  one  morn- 
ing in  Eden. 

"  Why  have  we  deferred  this  happy  hour  so  long,  Emma  ? 
How  long  have  we  loved  one  another?  From  the  very  be- 
ginning ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  think  it  was  from  the  very  beginning." 

"  Are  you  happy  ?  " 

"  Quite  happy.     Are  you  happy,  dear  ?  " 

"  Surely,  my  own,"  said  Erne.     "  Why  should  I  not  be  ?  " 

"  Then  let  us  be  happy  this  one  week,  Erne.  It  is  not  long. 
God  surely  will  not  begrudge  us  one  week ;  life  is  very  long." 

So  they  stood  and  talked  till  dusk  grew  into  darkness  upon 
the  poor  cripple-girl's  grave.  And  she  lay  peacefully  asleep,  nor 
turned  upon  her  bed,  nor  rose  up  in  her  grave-clothes,  to  scare 
her  kinsman  from  his  danorer. 

The  next  day  was  dark  and  wild,  and  he  was  up  and  away 
early,  to  take  the  last  headlong  step.  His  friend,  James  Burton, 
went  with  him,  and  Erne  took  passage  in  the  same  ship  by  which 
the  Burtons  were  going. 

It  was  a  busy,  hapi)y  day.  There  were  many  things  for  Erne 
to  buy,  of  which  he  knew  nothing,  and  his  humble  friend  had  to 
assist  him  in  fifty  ways.  At  intervals  of  business  Erne  found 
time  to  tell  Jim  everything,  and  that  worthy  lad  was  made  thor- 
oughly happy  by  the  news.  They  were  together  all  day  in  the 
driving  rain,  scarcely  noticing  that  it  blew  hard  till  they  got  on 
board  ship,  and  then  they  heard  it  moaning  melancholy  aloft 
among  the  spars  and  cordage,  telling  of  wild  weather  on  the  dis- 
tant sea. 


THE  niLLYAKS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  207 

At  evening  it  held  up  ;  and  Erne,  coming  home,  missed  Emma, 
and  followed  lier  down  to  the  church-yard.  It  was  a  very  ditrcr- 
ent  evening  from  tlie  last;  low  clouds  were  hurrying  swiftly 
along  overhead,  and  far  in  the  westward  a  golden  bar,  scarcely 
above  the  horizon,  showed  where  the  sun  was  setting ;  and,  as 
they  looked  at  it,  grew  dark  once  more. 

"  Emma,  my  love,  it  is  done." 

'•  What  is  done  ?  " 

"  I  have  taken  passage  in  the  same  ship  with  you." 

Was  it  a  moan  or  a  cry  that  she  gave  ?  Did  it  mean  joy,  or 
sorrow^,  or  terror  ?  He  soon  knew,  although  it  was  too  dark  to 
see  her  face. 

"  Don't  kill  me,  Erne,  by  saying  that !  Don't  tell  me  that 
you  've  been  such  a  madman  !  " 

"  ]My  darling,  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

''  Keep  your  hand  from  me.  Erne.  Do  not  kiss  me.  Do  not 
come  near  me." 

"  Emma,  what  is  the  matter  ?  " 

"  It  is  not  too  late,  Erne,"  she  said,  kneeling  down  on  the  "wet 
tombstone.  "  If  you  ever  loved  me,  —  if  you  have  any  mercy 
on  me,  or  on  yourself,  —  don't  carry  out  this  intention." 

"  In  Heaven's  name  why,  my  love  ?  " 

"  If  I  had  not  thought  that  we  were  to  part  for  ever  and  ever, 
inexorably,  at  the  end  of  this  week,  I  could  have  stopped  you  in 
a  thousand  ways.  But  I  thought  that  surely  I  might  have  one 
single  week  of  happiness  with  you,  before  we  parted  never  to 
meet  again." 

"  Why  are  we  to  part  ?  " 

"  I  have  devoted  my  whole  life  to  one  single  object,  and  noth- 
ing must  ever  interfere  with  it.  I  have  made  a  solemn  vow  be- 
fore  heaven  that  nothing  ever  shall.  I  allowed  myself  to  love 
you  before  I  knew  the  full  importance  of  that  object.  Even  in 
the  old  times  I  saw  that  I  must  give  you  up  for  duty ;  and  lately 
that  duty  has  become  ten  times  more  imperative  than  ever. 
Judge  what  hope  there  is  for  us." 

Erne  stood  silent  a  moment. 

"  Speak  to  me !  Curse  me  !  Don't  stand  silent !  I  know 
well  how  wicked  I  have  been,  but  think  of  my  punishment " 

''  Hush  !  my  darling.  You  are  only  dearer  to  me  than  ever. 
Hush !  and  come  here,  once  more  —  for  the  last  time  if  you  will, 
but  come." 

"  Only  for  one  moment.  Will  you  do  as  I  ask  you  ?  You  will 
not  come  with  us  ?  " 

''  I  will  see.  I  want  to  ask  you  something.  Did  you  think  that 
I  was  going  to  part  from  you  at  the  week's  end  as  ii"  notliing  had 
parsed  ?  Could  you  think  so  of  me  ?  Were  you  mad,  my 
own  ?  " 


208  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  Yes,  I  was  mad,  —  wicked  and  mad.  I  did  not  know,  I  did 
not  think.     I  would  not  think." 

"  And  do  you  think  I  can  give  you  up  so  lightly  now  ?  I  will 
not.     I  swear  it,  —  will  not." 

He  felt  her  tremble  on  his  arm,  but  she  said  quietly,  "  You 
must  let  me  go.  We  must  never  talk  to  one  another  like  this 
ao-ain.  It  is  all  my  fault,  I  know,  I  have  no  one  to  blame  but 
my  wicked  self.     Good-bye,  Erne." 

"  If  you  choose  to  carry  out  your  resolution,  you  shall  do  so ; 
but  I  will  be  by  your  side.  I  will  never  leave  you.  I  will  fol- 
low you  everywhere.  I  will  wait  as  long  as  you  will,  but  I  will 
never  give  you  up." 

"  God's  will  be  done,"  she  said.  "  If  you  will  make  my  trial 
harder,  I  can  only  say  that  I  have  deserved  it.  "We  must  come 
home,  Mr.  Hillyar." 

"  Emma ! " 

"I  have  called  you  Erne  for  the  last  time,"  she  said,  and 
walked  on. 

That  night  the  poor  girl  lay  sobbing  wildly  in  bed,  hour  after 
hour,  —  not  the  less  wildly  because  she  tried  to  subdue  her 
sobs  for  fear  of  awakening  her  sleeping  little  bedfellow,  Fred. 
Shame  at  the  license  she  had  allowed  Erne,  meaning  as  she  did 
to  part  with  him ;  remorse  for  the  pain  she  had  inflicted  on  him ; 
blind  terror  for  the  future ;  and,  above  all,  an  obstinate  adherence 
to  her  resolution,  which  her  own  heart  told  her  nothing  could 
ever  shake,  —  these  four  passions  —  sometimes  separately,  some- 
times combined  —  tore  her  poor  little  heart  so  terribly,  that  she 
hoped  it  was  going  to  burst,  and  leave  her  at  rest. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night,  in  one  of  the  lulls  between  her 
gusts  of  passion,  —  lulls  which,  by  God's  mercy,  were  becoming 
more  and  more  frequent ;  when  the  wild  wind  outside  had  died 
into  stillness,  and  the  whole  house  was  quiet ;  when  there  was  no 
sound  except  the  gentle  breathing  of  the  child  by  her  side,  and 
no  movement  except  its  breath  upon  her  cheek,  —  at  such  time 
the  door  was  opened,  and  some  one  came  in  with  a  light.  She 
looked  round  and  said,  — 

"  Mother ! " 

The  big,  hard-featured  blacksmith's  wife  came  to  the  bedside, 
and  sat  upon  it,  drawing  her  daughter  to  her  bosom.  She  said, 
"  Emma  dear,  tell  mother  all  about  it." 

"  Kiss  me  then,  mother,  and  tell  me  I  am  forgiven." 

"  You  know  you  are  forgiven,  my  daughter." 

"  I  never  meant  to  have  him,  mother.  I  always  loved  him ; 
you  know  that ;  but  I  had  vowed  my  life  to  poor  Joe,  before  ever 
I  saw  him.  You  know  you  told  me  to  give  him  up,  and  I  did. 
I  only  asked  for  one  more  day  of  him  ;  you  remember  that." 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  209 

«  And  I  forbade  it," 

"  You  were  rii^ht  and  wise,  dear.  But  tlien  lie  came  here  in 
his  trouble  ;  and  then,  dear,"  she  continued,  turning  her  innocent, 
beautiful  face  up  to  her  mother's,  "I  loved  him  dearer  than 
ever." 

"  I  know  that,  of  course.  I  don't  know  what  I  could  have 
done.     Go  on,  and  tell  me  what  has  happened  now." 

"  Why,  knowing  that  we  were  to  part  forever  at  the  end  of 
the  week " —  here  her  voice  sank  to  a  whisper  —  "I  let  him  tell 
me  he  loved  me ;  and  I  told  him  I  loved  him.  Oh,  my  God !  I 
only  wanted  one  week  of  him,  —  one  week  out  of  all  the  weary, 
long  eternity.     Was  that  so  very  wicked  ?  " 

"  You  have  been  wrong,  my  darling ;  you  have  been  very, 
very  wrong.  You  must  go  on  to  the  end ;  you  must  tell  me  what 
happened  to-night." 

"  To-night  ?  To-night  ?  In  the  church-yard  ?  Yes,  I  can  tell 
you  what  happened  there  well  enough.  I  am  not  likely  to  forget 
that.  He  told  me  that,  so  far  from  our  being  separated  forever, 
he  had  taken  passage  in  the  same  ship  with  us,  and  was  going  to 
follow  me  to  the  world's  end." 

"  And  what  did  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  knelt  and  asked  his  forgiveness,  and  then  cast  him  off  for- 
ever." 

Poor  Mrs.  Burton  sank  on  her  knees  on  the  floor,  and  looked 
up  into  her  daughter's  face. 

"  Emma !  Emma !    Can  you  forgive  your  wicked  old  mother  ?  " 

"  Forgive  you  !  I,  who  have  dragged  our  good  name  through 
the  dust !  I,  who  have  let  a  man  I  never  meant  to  marry  kiss 
my  cheek !     /forgive  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  my  poor  innocent  angel,  —  for  so  you  are,  —  your  poor 
old  mother  asks  your  forgiveness  on  her  knees.  I  might  have 
prevented  all  this.  I  broke  it  off  once,  as  you  remember ;  but 
when  he  came  back,  I  let  it  all  go  on,  just  as  if  I  was  n't  responsi- 
ble. I  thought  it  was  Providence  had  sent  him  back.  I  thought 
I  saw  God's  hand  in  it." 

"  God's  hand  is  in  it,"  said  Emma. 

"  And  Jim  was  so  fierce  about  it ;  and  I  am  so  afraid  of  Jim. 
He  wants  you  to  marry  Erne ;  and  I  thought  it  might  be  for  the 
best ;  but  I  see  other  things  now.     Are  you  afraid  of  Jim  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  what  will  he  say  about  this  ?  "  said  Emma. 

"  He  will  be  very  angry.     He  must  never  know." 

"  Erne  will  tell  him." 

"  Is  there  no  chance  of  your  relenting  about  Erne  Hillyar  ? ' 
said  Mrs.  Burton,  in  a  whisper. 

"  You  know  me,  mother,  and  you  know  there  is  none  ;  I  should 
drag  him  down." 

N 


210  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  Then  you  must  go  on  with  your  duty,  my  child.  If  you  die, 
dear,  —  if  God  takes  you  to  his  bosom,  and  lets  you  rest  there,  — 
you  must  go  on  with  your  duty.  Emma,  I  will  give  you  strength. 
He  would  never  be  happy  with  you  for  long,  unless  he  lowered 
himself  to  our  level ;  and  would  you  wish  him  to  do  that  ?  He 
is  one  to  rise  in  the  world,  and  we,  with  our  coarse  manners  and 
our  poverty,  would  only  be  a  clog  round  his  neck.  I  love  him  for 
loving  you  ;  but  remember  what  he  is,  and  think  what  a  partner 
he  should  have.  You  see  your  duty  to  him  and  to  Joe.  If  the 
waves  of  the  great,  cruel  sea  we  are  going  to  cross  rise  up  and 
whelm  us,  let  your  last  thought  before  your  death  be  that  you 
had  been  true  to  duty." 


CHAPTER    XLI. 

EMMA'S  WORK  BEGINS  TO  BE  CUT  OUT  FOR  HER. 

It  was  the  next  night  after  her  parting  with  Erne  in  the 
church-yard  that  poor  Emma's  ministrations  began. 

It  had  been  a  weary  day  for  her.  She  had  tried  hard  to  lose 
thought  in  work,  but  she  had  succeeded  but  poorly  even  in  the 
midst  of  the  bustle  of  preparation  ;  and  now,  when  she  was  sitting 
alone  in  the  silent  room,  with  Joe  moping  and  brooding,  with  his 
head  on  his  hands,  before  her,  —  refusing  to  speak,  refusing  to  go 
to  bed,  —  her  trouble  came  on  her  stronger  than  ever ;  and,  with 
a  feeling  nearly  like  despair,  she  recalled  the  happy  happy  hour 
she  had  passed  with  Erne  in  the  church-yard  only  two  days  ago, 
and  saw  before  her,  in  the  person  of  poor  Joe,  brooding  sullenly 
over  the  dying  fire,  her  life's  work,  —  the  hideous  fate  to  which 
she  had  condemned  herself  in  her  fanaticism. 

Erne  and  Jim  had  come  in  twice  that  day.  They  both  looked 
very  sad,  and  only  spoke  commonplaces  to  her.  She  saw  that 
Erne  had  told  Jim  everything,  and  she  trembled.  But,  Jim  and 
she  being  left  alone  for  one  moment,  Jim  had  come  solemnly  up 
and  kissed  her ;  and  then  she  had  suddenly  cast  her  arms  round 
his  neck,  and  blessed  him,  in  God's  name,  for  not  being  angry 
with  her.     He  had  kissed  her  again  sadly,  and  left  her. 

And  now  the  work  was  all  done,  and  the  children  were  in  bed ; 
and  she  would  gladly  have  been  in  bed  too,  with  Fred's  balmy 
child's  breath  fanning  her  to  sleep.  But  there  was  poor  Joe 
brooding  with  his  head  in  his  hands. 


THE  niLLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  211 

At  last  he  looked  up.  "  Emma,  my  love,"  he  said  gently,  "  go 
to  bed,  dear.     You  are  tired." 

"  To  bed,"  she  said,  "  my  old  Joe  ;  why,  it 's  only  half  past  nine. 
Here  's  ever  so  much  to  do  to  these  old  shirts  of  Jim's ;  burnt  all 
into  holes  in  the  arms  with  the  forge  sparks,  just  like  flithcr's. 
And  Martha,  she  's  put  the  eliildrcu  to  bed.  I  don't  think  I  shall 
go  to  bed  for  another  hour,  bless  you.     Let 's  sit  and  talk." 

"  I  wish  I  was  in  my  grave,"  said  Joe.  "  I  wish  I  had  killed 
myself  when  I  fell  otl"  that  ladder." 

"  Why,  dear  ?  "  said  Emma,  looking  at  him  earnestly. 

"  Because  I  am  shipwrecked  and  lost.  God  has  only  allowed 
me  to  exist  hitherto  because  I  developed  the  beautiful  unselfish 
love  of  my  brothers  and  sisters.  Why,  you  all  love  me  as  well 
as  if  I  was  not  the  loathsome  object  I  am." 

"  Joe,  how  dare  you  !  I  will  not  have  it !  You  know  you  are 
not  loathsome ;  and  who  knows  better  than  yourself  that  your 
abilities  are  first-rate  ?  " 

"  Ay  !  ay !  "  said  Joe.  "  But  a  man  with  my  hideous  affliction 
don't  get  two  such  chances.  /  know.  People  like  looking  on 
handsome  and  beautiful  things,  if  they  can.  No  man  would  have 
such  an  unhappy  monster  as  I  am  near  him,  if  he  could  have 
something  in  the  shape  of  a  human  being.  I  don't  blame  them. 
I  don't  rebel  against  God.     I  only  know  that  my  career  is  over." 

"  Joe  !  Joe  !  what  are  you  talking  of  ?  Why,  Joe,  you  have  a 
head  like  Lord  Byron's.  Who  knows  better  than  Erne  Ilillyar  ? 
You  are  the  handsomest  of  the  family,  in  spite  of  your  poor  dear 
back." 

"  I  love  you  and  Jim  the  better  for  flattering  me ;  but  my  eyes 
are  opened." 

"  Have  you  fallen  in  love  with  any  one  ?  Come,  tell  your  own 
sister.     Let  her  share  your  trouble,  Joe." 

"  No,  it  's  not  that  I  was  thinking  of.  I  don't  care  for  any 
woman  but  you.  That  Mrs.  George  Hillyar,  Lady  Hillyar,  I 
should  say  —  " 

"  Have  you  fallen  in  love  with  her^  dear?  "  said  Emma  eagerly. 

"  Curse  her !  I  hate  her,  the  frivolous  idiot.  She  gave  me 
the  bitterest  insult  I  have  ever  had.  Wlien  I  first  went  there,  I 
came  suddenly  on  her  in  the  library,  and  she  ran  away  scream- 
ing, and  locked  herself  in  the  nursery  with  the  baby." 

'•  I  should  like  to  knock  her  silly  little  head  off  her  impudent 
little  shoulders,"  said  Emma  with  a  bounce,  stitching  away  at 
Jim's  shirt,  as  if  each  click  of  the  needle  was  a  dig  into  poor 
Gerty's  eyes.  "  But  come,  Joe,  that  ain't  what 's  the  matter. 
What 's  the  matter  is  this.  You  thought  you  were  going  to  be  a 
great  public  man,  and  so  on  ;  and  you  've  had  a  temporary  disap- 
pointment.    Only  don't  go  and  look  me  in  the  face,  and  tell  me 


212  THE  HILL  YAKS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

that  your  personal  appearance  is  going  to  begin  to  trouble  you  at 
this  time  of  day ;  because,  if  you  do,  I  shan't  believe  you.  And, 
as  for  Lady  Hillyar,  she  may  be  a  very  good  judge  of  blacks 
(among  whom  she  has  been  brought  up,  and  has  apparently  cop- 
ied her  manners)  ;  but  she  is  none  of  white,  or  she  would  n't  have 
married  that  most  ill-looking  gentleman,  Sir  George.  I  say,  Joe, 
dear." 

"  Well,  Em,"  said  Joe,  with  something  like  a  laugh. 

•'  Is  there  any  parliament  in  Cooksland  now,"  said  Emma. 

"  Yes,"  said  Joe,  getting  interested  at  once.  "  Yes,  two  Houses. 
Council,  sixteen  members,  nominated  by  the  Crown  for  life ;  Lower 
House  or  Assembly,  thirty  members,  elected  by  universal  suffrage 
of  tax-payers.  Property  qualification,  300  acres  under  cultiva- 
tion, or  £2,000." 

"  Then  there  you  are.  What  is  to  hinder  you  from  a  career  ? 
Lord  bless  me !  why,  it  seems  to  me  that  you  have  made  a  change 
for  the  better.  Career  indeed ! "  And  so  she  went  on  for  half 
an  hour,  getting  from  him  the  political  statistics  of  the  colony,  and 
shaping  out  his  political  conduct,  until  she  suddenly  turned  on 
him,  and  insisted  on  his  talking  no  more,  but  going  to  bed ;  and 
she  had  her  reward,  for  he  kissed  her,  and  went  up  stairs  with  a 
brighter  look  on  his  handsome  face  than  had  been  there  for  weeks. 

She  had  hardly  seen  him  out  of  the  room,  and  had  come  back 
with  the  intention  of  folding  up  Jim's  shirt  and  going  to  bed,  when 
she  started,  for  there  was  a  low  knock  at  the  door. 

She  listened.  She  heard  Joe  lumbering  up  to  bed,  and,  while 
she  held  her  breath,  the  knocking  came  again  a  little  louder. 

It  was  at  the  house  door.  She  crossed  the  wide  dark  hall 
which  lay  between  the  sitting-room  and  that  door,  and  laid  her 
ear  against  it.  As  she  did  so  the  knocking  was  repeated  more 
impatiently.     She  said  in  a  low  voice,  very  eagerly,  "  Reuben  ?  " 

A  shrill  whisper  from  the  other  side  said,  "  Blow  Reuben.  I 
wish  Reuben  had  six  months  in  a  cook's  shop  with  a  muzzle  on, 
for  this  here  night's  work.  Keeping  a  cove  hanging  about  a 
crib  as  has  been  blow'd  on,  with  the  traps  a  lurking  about  in  all 
directions.     Is  that  Emma  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

"  I  knowed  it  were,"  said  the  other  party,  in  a  triumphant  tone. 
"  Young  woman,  young  woman,  open  that  there  door.  I  won't 
hurt  you.  I  won't  even  so  much  as  kiss  you,  without  consent 
freely  given,  and  all  parties  agreeable." 

Emma,  who  had  a  pretty  good  notion  of  taking  care  of  herself, 
and  was  as  well  able  to  do  it  as  any  lady  of  our  editorial  acquaint- 
ance, opened  the  door  and  looked  out.  Looking  out  was  no  good ; 
but,  hearing  something  make  a  click  with  its  tongue  about  the 
level  of  her  knees,  she  looked  down,  and  saw  below  her  a  very 


THE  HILLY ARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  213 

Braall  boy  of  the  Jewish  persuasion,  with  a  curly  head,  apparently 
about  nine  years  old,  and  certainly  under  four  feet  high. 

Iler  first  idea  was  that  he  was  the  son  and  heir  of  the  little 
Jew  gentleman  described  to  her  by  Jim  as  having  defended  Reu- 
ben, who  had  been  sent  with  the  bill.  She  was  quite  mistaken ; 
there  was  no  connexion  between  the  two,  save  a  common  relation- 
ship with  Abraham.  Considering  it  necessary  to  say  something, 
and  feeling  it  safer  to  confine  herself  to  polite  commonplaces,  she 
said  that  she  was  very  sorry  indeed  to  say  that  her  father  was 
gone  to  bed ;  but  that,  if  he  would  be  so  good  as  to  look  round  iu 
the  morninor,  she  would  feel  obliged  to  him. 

The  little  Jew,  who,  if  it  had  not  been  for  his  beautiful  eyes, 
hair,  and  complexion,  would  have  reminded  you  most  forcibly  of 
a  baby  pike,  about  two  ounces  in  weight,  turned  his  handsome 
little  head  on  one  side,  and  smiled  on  Emma  amorously.  Then 
he  winked ;  then  he  took  a  letter  from  beliind  his  back,  and  held 
it  before  his  mouth  while  he  coughed  mysteriously ;  then  he  put 
the  letter  behind  him  once  more,  and  waltzed,  with  amazing  grace 
and  activity,  for  full  ten  bars. 

"  You  're  a  funny  boy,"  said  Emma.  "  If  that  letter  is  for  me, 
you  'd  better  take  and  hand  it  over.  If  it  ain't,  you  'd  best  take 
and  hook  it ;  and  so  I  don't  deceive  you ;  because  I  ain't  going 
to  be  kept  here  all  night  with  your  acting.  If  I  want  to  see  mon- 
keys I  go  to  the  Zellogical.     There  is  some  pretty  ones  there." 

The  small  Israelite  was  not  in  the  least  offended.  "  I  'm  an 
admirer  of  yourn,"  he  said.  "  I  've  gone  and  fallen  in  love  with 
you  at  first  sight ;  that 's  about  what  I  've  took  and  done.  I  am 
enamored  of  your  person,  I  tell  you.  You  're  a  fine-built  girl. 
You  're  crumby ;  I  don't  go  to  deny  that ;  but  there  's  not  too 
much  on  it  yet.  Confine  yourself  to  a  vegetable  diet,  and  take 
horse  exercise  regular,  and  you  '11  never  be  what  any  man  of 
taste  would  call  fat.  Come,  it 's  no  use  beating  about  the  bush ; 
I  want  a  kiss  for  this  'ere  letter." 

"  You  little  ape,"  said  Emma.  "Who  do  you  think  is  going 
to  kiss  you  ?  " 

"  Why,  you  are,  unless  I  mistake,"  replied  the  boy.  "  Just  one. 
Come  on  ;  you  can't  help  yourself.  I  always  were  partial  to  your 
style  of  beauty  ever  since  I  growed  up.  Come,  give  it  to  us, 
unless  I  'm  to  come  and  take  it." 

At  this  point  of  the  conference,  Emma,  with  a  rapid  dexterity, 
which  not  only  took  the  Jew  child  utterly  by  surprise,  but  which 
ever  after  was  a  source  of  astonishment  and  admiration  to  Emma 
herself  and  all  her  friends,  made  a  dive  at  him,  knocked  his  cap 
off,  got  her  fingers  in  his  hair,  and  took  the  letter  from  him  be- 
fore he  had  time  to  get  his  breath.  She  turned  on  the  threshold 
flushed  with  victory,  and  said,  "  /'//  kiss  you,  you  little  Judas ! 
With  pepper-my-Barney  !     Oh  yes,  with  capsicumg ! " 


214  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

She  slammed  the  door  in  the  pretty  little  rogue's  face,  and  tore 
the  letter  open.  She  had  guessed,  as  has  possibly  the  reader,  that 
it  was  from  Reuben.  It  was  this  which  made  her  so  eager  to  get 
it.  It  was  this  which  made  her  lose  her  temper  at  his  nonsensi- 
cal delay,  and  use  for  a  minute  or  two  language  which,  though 
most  familiar  to  her  ear,  was  utterly  unfamiliar  to  her  mouth. 

The  letter,  given  below,  took  about  two  minutes  to  read.  Id 
about  two  more  she  had  caught  down  her  bonnet  and  shawl,  had 
blown  out  the  candle,  had  silently  opened  the  front  door,  had 
looked  around,  had  slipped  out  and  shut  it  after  her,  and  then, 
keeping  on  the  south  side  of  Brown's  Row,  had  crossed  Church 
Street,  and  set  herself  to  watch  the  Black  Lion. 

Meanwhile  there  is  just  time  to  read  the  letter. 

"  Dearest  Emma,  —  Although  I  have  gone  to  the  dogs  utter- 
ly, and  without  any  hope  at  all  of  getting  away  from  them  any 
more,  I  should  like  to  tell  you,  and  for  you  to  tell  Jim,  and  for 
him  to  tell  Master  Erne  and  the  kids,  as  they  were  all  the  same 
to  me  as  ever,  although  I  must  never  see  nor  speak  to  any  of 
them  never  any  more. 

"  I  'm  lost,  old  girl.  Tell  your  father  that  I  humbly  pray  his 
forgiveness  for  the  sorrow  I  have  brought  on  him.  I  know  how 
wild  he  must  be  with  me.  He  was  a  kind  and  good  friend  to 
me,  and  I  wish  I  had  been  struck  dead  before  I  brought  this  trou- 
ble upon  him. 

"  I  've  gone  regularly  to  the  devil  now,  old  girl.  Nothing  can't 
save  me  now.  I  haint  done  nothing  yet;  —  that's  coming,  to- 
night may  be,  —  or  I  should  n't  have  the  cheek  to  write  to  you. 
Kiss  the  kids  all  round  for  me,  and  tell  'em  as  poor  Reuben  's 
dead  and  gone,  and  wdll  never  see  'em  any  more.  You  'd  better 
say,  old  girl,  that  he  was  drownded  last  Tuesday,  opposite  the 
Vice- Chancellor's,  a-training,  and  lies  buried  in  Putney  Church- 
yard.    Something  of  that  sort  wall  look  ship-shape. 

"  Good-bye,  old  girl,  forever.  Don't  forget  that  there  ivere 
such  a  chap ;  and  that  he  was  very  fond  of  you  all,  though  he 
was  a  nuisance. 

"  Reuben." 


THE  HILLYARS   AND  THE  BURTONS.  215 


CHAPTER    XLII. 

EMMA  ASTONISHES  A   GOOD   MANY  PEOPLE  :    THE  MEMBERS   OF 
HER  FAMILY  IN  PARTICULAR. 

Emma  saw  the  Jew-boy  go  into  the  public  house,  and  saw  what 
went  on  there.  He  had  no  business  in  there ;  he  did  not  call  for 
anything ;  he  merely  went  in  as  a  polite  attention  to  the  com- 
pany. There  was  a  water-filter  on  the  bar,  the  tap  of  which  he 
set  running  on  to  the  floor,  and  then  stood  and  laughed  at  it. 
Upon  this  the  bar-maid  ran  out  of  the  bar  to  box  his  ears,  and  he 
dodged  her  and  ran  into  the  bar,  shutting  the  gate  behind  him, 
and  contrived  to  finish  a  pint  of  ale  before  she  could  get  at  him ; 
and,  when  she  did,  he  lay  down  in  a  corner  and  refused  to  move, 
or  to  do  anything  but  to  use  language  calculated  to  provoke  a 
breach  of  the  peace.  She  slapped  him  and  she  kicked  him ;  but 
there  he  lay,  all  the  company  laughing  at  her,  till  at  la-t  the  po- 
liceman made  his  appearance,  and  all  he  could  do  was  to  get  hold 
of  him  by  one  leg,  and  drag  him  out  on  his  back,  with  all  his 
curls  trailing  in  the  sawdust,  showing  about  as  much  care  or  life 
as  a  dead  dog.  There  was  nothing  to  do  but  to  drag  him  out- 
side, and  let  him  lie  on  the  pavement.  When  the  policeman  let 
go  his  leg,  he  managed  to  drop  the  heel  of  his  boot  with  amazing 
force  on  to  the  policeman's  toe ;  after  which  he  lay  for  dead 
again. 

"  Whatever  shall  I  do  ?  "  thought  poor  Emma.  "  If  they  lock 
him  up,  whatever  shall  I  do  ?  " 

The  landlord  and  the  policeman  stood  looking  at  him.  "  Did 
you  ever  see  such  a  little  devil  ?  "  said  the  landlord. 

"  Never  such  a  one  as  he.     Shall  I  lock  him  up  ?  " 

"  Lord  bless  you,  no,"  said  the  landlord  ;  ''  let  the  poor  little 
monkey  be.  Good-night."  And  so  the  policeman  departed  round 
the  corner.   • 

Emma  was  very  much  relieved  by  this.  They  left  the  boy 
alone ;  and  then,  like  a  fox  who  has  been  shamming  dead,  he 
moved  his  head  slightly.  Then  he  raised  it  cautiously,  and,  see- 
ing he  was  really  alone,  suddenly  started  up,  gave  a  wild  yell,  an.d 
darted  off  like  lightning  up  Church  Street,  at  one  minute  in  the 
road,  in  another  on  the  pavement ;  and  away  started  poor  Emma 
after  him,  with  as  much  chance  of  catching  him  as  she  would 
have  had  with  a  hare. 

Fortunately  for  her  quest,  as  she  came  into  the  King's  Road 


216  THE  HILLY ARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

she  ran  straight  against  the  policeman,  who  said,  with  alarm  and 
astonishment,  "  Miss  Burton  !  " 

"  Yes.  Don't  dehi}^  me,  for  God's  sake.  Have  you  seen  a 
little  Jew  boy  running  ?  " 

"  Lord,  yes,  miss,"  he  answered  laughing.  "  He  came  flying 
round  here  like  a  mad  dog ;  and,  when  he  see  me,  he  gave  a 
screech  that  went  right  through  your  head,  and  cut  in  behind  they 
Oakley  Square  railings ;  and  there  he  is  now." 

"  Is  he  mad  ?  "  said  Emma. 

"  No,"  said  the  policeman.  "  He  's  skylarking ;  that 's  what 
he  's  up  to,  after  the  manner  of  his  nation." 

"  It  's  a  very  extraordinary  and  lunatic  way  of  skylarking," 
said  Emma.  "  I  have  got  to  follow  him.  Go  home  and  wake 
Jim,  and  tell  him  where  and  how  you  saw  me." 

"  Take  care,  miss,  for  God's  sake." 

"Yes,  yes;  see,  there  he  comes  creeping  out.  Go  and  tell 
Jim.     I  hope  he  won't  run.     Good-night." 

The  little  Jew  did  not  run.  He  began  thinking  what  he  would 
do  next.  He  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  would  waltz,  and 
he  put  his  resolution  into  immediate  execution,  and  waltzed  up 
the  King's  Parade.  But  he  did  even  this  like  some  one  pos- 
sessed with  evil  spirits,  who  took  every  opportunity  of  getting 
the  upper  hand.  Faster  and  more  furious  grew  the  boy's  dancing 
each  moment,  more  like  the  spin  of  a  whirling  Dervish,  or  the 
horrible  dance  in  Vathek.  The  wildest  Carmagnole  dancer  on 
the  second  of  September  would  have  confessed  himself  outdone 
in  barbaric  fury ;  and  the  few  belated  passengers  turned  and 
looked  on  with  something  like  awe ;  and  Emma  began  to  fancy 
that  she  was  being  lured  to  her  destruction  by  some  fantastic 
devil.  The  poor  little  man  had  been  mewed  up  for  weeks,  and 
all  the  intense  vivacity  of  his  race  was  breaking  out,  and  taking 
the  form  of  these  strange  weird  tricks,  —  tricks  which  in,  say  a 
Teutonic  child,  would  have  been  clear  evidence  of  madness,  but 
which  were  simply  natural  in  a  child  of  that  wondrous,  inde- 
structible, unalterable  race  to  which  he  belonged.  A  French 
girl  would  have  been  merely  amused  with  them ;  but  Emma,  a 
thorough  English  girl,  with  the  peculiarly  English  habit  of  judg- 
ing ^11  things  in  heaven  and  earth  by  the  English  standard,  was 
frightened ;  and  her  fright  took  the  thoroughly  English  form  of 
obstinate  anger,  and  nerved  her  to  her  task.  "  The  little  wretch  ; 
I  will  be  even  with  him." 

So  she  went  on,  eager  and  determined,  with  her  eyes  and  her 
mind  so  concentrated  on  the  strange  little  figure,  that  she  never 
exactly  knew  where  she  went.  The  cliild  lurked,  and  dodged, 
and  ran,  and  dawdled,  and  shouted,  and  sang,  till  nothing  which 
he  could  have  done  would  have  surprised  her;  and  she  found 


THE  IIILLYAirS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  217 

liei-self  getting  into  a  chronic  state  of  expectation  as  to  what  he 
would  do  next. 

Once  again  everytliing  was  nearly  going  wrong.  Tlie  boy  set 
ofl"  on  one  of  liis  runs,  and  ran  swiftly  round  a  corner,  and  she 
ran  round  too,  for  fear  of  losing  sight  ol"  him  ;  and  at  the  corner 
she  met  him  coming  back  again,  walking  slowly,  with  his  hands 
in  his  pockets,  whistling.  But  he  did  not  recognize  her.  He 
asked  her  how  her  uncle  Benjamin  was  to-night,  and  told  her 
that  Bill  had  waited  there  for  her  till  ten,  but  had  gone  off  in 
the  sulks,  and  was  going  to  take  her  sister  Sally  to  Hampton 
Court  in  a  van,  to  feed  the  gold  fish  with  pej)|)('rmint  lozenges; 
but  he  did  not  recognize  her,  and  she  was  tliankful  tor  it. 

At  last,  when  and  where  she  cannot  tell,  they  came  into  more 
crowded  streets ;  and  here  the  young  gentleman  displayed  a  new 
form  of  vivacity,  and  began  to  jjlay  at  a  new  game,  infinitely 
more  disconcerting  tlian  any  of  his  other  escapades.  This  game 
was  trying  to  get  run  over.  He  would  suddenly  dart  out  into 
the  street  under  the  very  hoofs  of  the  fastest  going  cab-horse  that 
he  could  see.  If  he  could  get  the  cabman  to  pull  up,  he  would 
stand  in  the  street  and  enter  into  a  personal  altercation  with  him, 
in  which,  —  he  being  a  Jew,  and  the  cabman,  nominally  at  least, 
being  a  Christian,  —  he  always  got  the  best  of  it.  If  the  , cab 
did  not  pull  up,  he  dodged  out  of  the  way  and  tried  another. 
This  being  an  amusement  which  consumed  a  great  deal  of  time, 
and  the  collection  of  no  less  than  two  crowds,  from  the  second 
and  largest  of  which  he  was  walked  out  by  a  policeman  in  strict 
custody,  poor  Emma's  heart  failed  her,  and  she  began  to  weep 
bitterly. 

But  her  "  pluck  "  (a  good  word,  though  a  vulgar  one)  never 
gave  way.  She  determined  to  follow  him  to  the  station,  see  him 
in  safe  custody,  and  then  confide  the  whole  truth  to  the  Inspector, 
be  the  consequences  what  they  might.  It  w^as  lucky  that  there 
was  no  necessity  for  such  a  ruinous  course  of  proceeding. 

She  was  following  close  on  the  heels  of  the  boy  and  the  police- 
man, when  she  heard  this  dialogue:  — 

"  I  'm  very  sorry,  sir.  I  was  running  after  a  young  man  as 
has  owed  me  a  joey  ever  since  the  last  blessed  Greenwich  fair 
as  ever  dawned  on  this  wicked  world." 

'•  Don't  tell  me :  did  n't  I  see  you  playing  your  antics  all  up 
the  Cut.  bobbing  in  and  out  among  the  horses,  you  young  luna- 
tic? 77/  shake  you."  And  he  did;  and  the  boy  wept  the 
wild,  heart-rending  tears  of  remorse,  rather  more  naturally  than 
nature. 

"  Look  here.     If  I  let  you  go,  will  you  go  home  ?  " 

"  Strike  me  blind  if  I  don't,  sir.  Come,  I  really  will,  you 
know.  Honor.  I  've  had  my  spree,  and  I  want  to  get  home. 
10 


218  THE  HILLYAES  AND  THE   BURTONS. 

Do  let  me  go.      I  shall  catch  it  so  owdacious  if  I  ain't  homo 
soon.     Come." 

"  There  yon  are,  then.  Stow  yonr  games  now.  There,  cut 
away,  yon  monkey." 

The  boy  played  no  more  antics  after  this ;  he  seemed  to  have 
been  sobered  by  his  last  escape.  He  held  so  steadily  homewards, 
that  Emma,  without  any  notion  where  she  was,  or  where  she  was 
going,  found  herself  opposite  a  low  public-house,  before  which 
the  boy  paused. 

He  did  not  go  in,  but  went  to  a  door  adjoining,  and  knocked 
with  his  knuckles.  After  a  few  minutes,  the  door  was  opened 
as  far  as  the  chain  would  allow  it,  and  some  one  inside  said,  "  Now 
then?" 

"  Nicnicabarlah,"  was  what  the  boy  answered. 
Emma,  listening  eagerly,  caught  the  word  correctly,  and  re- 
peated it  two  or  three  times  to  herself,  after  the  boy  had  slipped 
in,  and  the  door  was  shut  behind  him.  AVliat  a  strange,  wicked- 
sounding  word !  Could  there  be  any  unknown,  nameless  sin  in 
repeating  it?  There  were  strange  tales  about  these  Jews,  and 
this  particular  one  was  undoubtedly  possessed  by  one  devil  at 
least,  if  not  a  dozen.     A  weird  word,  indeed ! 

So  she  thought  about  it  now.  But  afterwards,  in  the  Sabbath 
of  Tier  life,  the  word  became  very  familiar  and  very  dear  to  her, 
and  represented  a  far  different  train  of  ideas.  Now  it  was  the 
name,  the  formula,  of  some  unknown  iniquity :  hereafter,  when 
she  understood  everything,  she  smiled  to  know  that  the  wicked 
word  was  only  the  native  name  for  a  soaring,  solitary,  flame- 
worn  crag,  —  the  last  left  turret  in  the  ruin  of  a  great  volcano, 
—  in  the  far-off  land  of  hope  to  which  they  were  bound.  One 
of  the  first  and  greatest  wonders  in  the  new  land  was  to  see 
Nicnicabarlah  catch  the  sun,  and  blaze  like  a  new  and  more 
beautiful  star  in  the  bosom  of  the  morning. 

That  strange  word,  had  she  known  all  slie  did  afterwards,  would 
have  told  her  that  Somebody  was  in  those  parts ;  but  now  she 
knocked  at  the  door  in  ignorance,  and  it  being  demanded  of  her 
"what  the  office  was,"  she  pronounced  the  horrid  word  in  her 
desperation,  at  imminent  risk,  as  she  half  believed,  of  raising  the 
devil.  The  only  present  effect  of  it  was  that  she  was  admitted 
into  a  pitch-dark  passage,  by  something  which  Emma,  using  the 
only  sense  then  available,  concluded  to  be  a  young  woman  of 
untidy  habits  ;  as,  indeed,  it  was. 

"  I  want  Reuben  Burton,  if  you  please,"  said  Emma,  in  the 
dark,  with  the  coolest  self-possession. 

"  You  're  his  young  woman,  ain't  you  ?  "  said  the  untidy  one. 

Emma  said,  "  Yes." 

"  Who  give  you  the  office  ?  "  said  the  untidy  one. 


THE   IIILLYARS  AND  TIIK  BURTONS.  219 

"  Who  could  it  liave  been  but  one  ?  " 

"  Of  ooiirso,  it  was  B(mi,"  said  tli«^  untidy  one.  "  But  don't 
tell  on  him,  young  woman.  He'll  be  torn  to  pieces,  if  you  do. 
And  he  ain't  a  bad  'un,  ain't  r)en." 

Emma  promised  she  would  n't,  and  once  more  asked  to  see 
Reuben. 

The  untidy  one  led  her  through  a  very,  very  long  passage,  in 
pitch  darkness,  at  the  end  of  which  she  by  no  means  reassured 
"Euuna  by  telling  her  that  there  were  nine  steps  to  go  down,  and 
that  slie  had  better  mind  her  head  !  However,  she  went  down  in 
safety,  and  was  shown  into  a  rather  comfortable,  cellar-like  room, 
with  a  brick  floor,  in  which  there  were  lights  and  a  good  fire,  be- 
fore which  sat  Master  Ben,  the  insane  young  Jew  child  possessed 
of  the  seven  devils,  warming  himself. 

He  turned  and  recognized  lier  at  once.  For  one  instant  there 
was  a  sudden  ^asA,  —  I  mean  an  instantaneous  expression  (I  can 
explain  myself  no  better),  —  of  angry  astonishment  on  his  hand- 
some little  face.  Though  it  was  gone  directly,  it  was  wonder- 
fully visible,  as  passion  is  apt  to  be  on  Jewish  faces.  The  mo- 
ment after  it  had  passed,  he  looked  at  her  lazily,  winked,  and 
said :  — 

''Don't  make  love  to  me  before  /zer," — jerking  his  thumb  at 
the  untidy  one,  who  in  the  liglit  was  more  untidy  than  Emma 
had  even  anticipated  from  what  she  gathered  in  the  dark, — 
"  she  's  enamored  of  me,  she  is.  It  aiu't  reciprocal  though  it 
may  be  flattering.  I  never  give  her  no  encouragement ;  so  you 
can't  blame  me.  It 's  one  of  those  sort  of  things  that  a  man  of 
my  personal  appearance  must  put  up  with.  I  regret  it,  for  the 
young  woman's  sake,  but  wash  my  hands  of  the  consequences." 

The  "■  young  woman,"  who  was  old  enough  to  be  his  mother, 
and  looked  old  enough  to  be  his  jTrandmother,  lauorhed  and  de- 
parted,  and  Emma  heard  her  bawling  to  some  one,  to  know  if 
Chelsea  Bob  was  in  the  w^ay. 

The  moment  she  was  gone,  the  child  Ben  jumped  on  his  feet, 
and  looking  eagerly  at  Emma,  said,  ''  In  God's  name,  how  did 
you  get  here  ?  " 

''  I  followed  you  all  the  way,"  said  Emma,  with  calm  com- 
posure. "  I  heard  the  word  you  gave,  and.  Lord  forgive  me  ! 
said  it  myself  at  the  door.     And  here  I  am." 

"  Young  woman,  you  're  mad !  You  don't  know  where  you 
are.  I  can't  tell  you.  Quick  !  they  '11  be  here  in  a  moment.  I 
will  let  you  out.     Quick  !  —  it  will  be  too  late  in  one  minute." 

"  I  '11  never  leave  this  house  alive,  without  Reuben,"  was 
Emma's  quiet  answer.  And  as  she  gave  it,  she  was  conscious 
that  the  bawling  after  "  Chelsea  Bob  "  had  ceased  almost  as  soon 
as  it  had  begun,  and  there  was  a  dead  silence. 


220  THE  HILLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS. 

"  Lord  of  Moses ! "  said  little  Ben,  clutching  wildly  at  his  hair, 

—  "  she  '11  drive  me    mad  !     Emma  !  —  girl !  —  young  woman ! 

—  will  you  be  sane  ?  I  '11  let  you  out,  if  you  'II  go.  If  you 
don't  go  this  instant,  you  '11  never  go  alive,  I  tell  you.  I  like 
you.  I  like  your  face  and  your  way,  and  I  like  Reuben,  and 
came  down  all  the  way  to  Chelsea  to-night  for  good- will  towards 
him.  I  '11  get  him  out  of  this  for  you.  I  '11  do  anything  for 
you,  if  you  '11  only  clear.  I  shall  be  half-murdered  for  it,  but 
I  '11  do  it.  You  're  among  Levison's  lot,  I  tell  you.  Coiners  ; 
you  understand  that.  No  one  leaves  here  alive.  You  under- 
stand that.     It  will  be  too  late  directly." 

It  was  too  late  already,  it  appeared.  Two  men  were  in  the 
room,  and  three  women,  including  the  untidy  one,  who  might 
now,  in  comparison  with  the  two  others,  have  made  good  her 
claim  to  a  rather  exceptional  neatness  of  attire  and  cleanliness 
of  person.  The  battle  began  by  one  of  the  men  striking  poor 
little  Ben  with  his  whole  strength  on  the  side  of  his  head,  and 
sending  him  against  the  bars  of  the  fireplace,  from  which  he  fell 
stunned  and  motionless.  The  girl  who  had  let  Emma  in,  went 
and  picked  him  up,  and  kissed  him,  and  held  him  in  her  arms 
like  a  child,  scowling  all  the  time  savagely  at  Emma. 

"  You  cowardly  brute,"  cried  Emma,  in  full  defiance,  draw- 
ing herself  up  until  she  looked  as  big  as  her  mother,  —  "  strik- 
ing a  child  like  that !  I  want  my  cousin  Reuben.  Reuben ! 
Reuben!" 

She  said  this  so  loud,  that  the  man  who  had  struck  the  child 
said  quickly,  "  Collar  her ! "  But  she  was  on  one  side  of  the 
table  and  they  on  the  other;  and  before  they  had  time  to  get 
round,  she  stopped  them  by  saying,  "•  1  '11  put  a  knife  in  the 
heart  of  any  one  that  comes  near  me.  Mind  that !  Reuben,  — 
Reuben  !     Help  !  " 

The  pause  was  only  instantaneous.  They  saw  that  she  had 
no  knife,  and  rushed  on  her.  But  her  cries  had  not  been  in 
vain.  One  of  the  men  had  just  seized  her,  and  was  holding  his 
hand  over  her  mouth,  when  he  received  a  staggering  blow  on  liis 
ear,  which  he  remembered  for  a  long  while,  about  ten  times 
harder  than  the  one  he  had  given  to  poor  plucky  little  Ben ;  and 
a  hoarse  voice,  belonging  to  the  person  who  had  given  the  blow, 
said,  with  perfect  equanimity  :  — 

"  What 's  up  here  ?  what 's  up  ?  what 's  up  ?  'Hands  off  is 
manners.     I  won't  have  no  girls  fisted  in  this  house." 

One  of  the  untidy  young  ladies  was  beginning  to  remark  that 
she  liked  that,  and  that  it  was  pleasing  to  find  that  they  was  to 
be  overrode  in  their  own  crib  by  Chelsea  roughs  as  was  kept 
dark  out  of  charity,  when  she  was  interrupted  by  Emma  casting 
herself  at  the  feet  of  the  woman  who  had  struck  the  blow,  and 
crying  out, — 


TUE  HILLYARS  AND  TIIK   BURTONS.  221 

"Mrs.  Bardolpli !  —  help  me  !  Dear  Mrs.  Burdolph,  when  I 
read  the  good  words  to  you  iu  your  fever,  you  said  you  would 
never  forget  me.     Help  me  now  !  " 

And  then  that  terrible  woman,  so  hideous,  so  fierce,  so  reek- 
less,  —  the  woman  who  had  been  steeped  in  infamy  from  her 
girlhood  ;  the  woman  whose  past  was  a  catalogue  of  crimes, 
whose  future  seemed  a  hopeless  hell;  the  woman  who  had  never 
forgotten  God,  because  she  had  never  known  Him  ;  who  had 
never  repented,  because  evil  had  been  her  good  from  childhood ; 
this  savage,  unsexed  termagant  now  bent  down  over  poor  Emma, 
and  said,  in  a  voice  of  terror,  —  "My  God!  it's  Miss  Burton! 
Emma  Burton,  I  would  sooner  have  been  dead  than  see  you 
here.  Oh,  I  would  sooner  have  been  dead  than  seen  this.  Oh, 
Miss  Burton  !  Miss  Burton  !  what  has  brought  you  to  this  evil 
den  ?  " 

"  I  have  come  after  my  cousin  Reuben.  I  have  come  to  save 
him.  He  is  innocent,  for  he  told  me  so,  and  he  never  deceived 
me.  Mrs.  Bardolpli,  you  must  die  some  day  ;  don't  die  with  this 
sin  on  your  mind.  Don't  lend  your  help  to  ruin  an  innocent 
young  man,  who  never  harmed  you.  Let  me  see  him,  and  I  will 
persuade  him  to  come  away  with  me,  and  we  will  bless  your  name 
as  Ion 2;  as  we  live." 

Mrs.  Bardolph,  nee  Tearsheet,  turned  to  one  who  stood  beside 
her,  and  said,  ''  Come,  you  know  what  I  told  you.  Decide.  Let 
him  go."  And  Emma  turned,  too,  and  for  the  first  time  saw  her 
cousin  Samuel. 

She  did  not  know  him.  She  did  not  even  guess  wdio  this 
strange,  long-nosed  man,  with  the  Satanic  eyebrows,  and  his 
mouth  close  up  under  his  nose,  could  be.  She  only  saw  that  he 
was  the  most  remarkable-looking  person  present,  and,  though  he 
looked  like  a  great  scoundrel,  yet  still  there  was  a  certain  air  of 
refinement  about  him ;  so  she  turned  to  him  :  — 

"  Come,  sir.  You  are  an  old  man.  Your  account  will  soon 
be  rendered.  You  have  power  here ;  you  will  not  use  it  against 
this  poor  young  man's  soul.  I  see  you  are  yielding,  by  your 
eyes,"  she  went  on,  taking  his  hand.  "  Dear  sir,  you  must  have 
had  a  son  of  your  own  once ;  for  his  sake  help  me  to  save  my 
cousin." 

"  If  you  take  away  your  cousin,  Emma,  you  take  away  my  son, 
and  leave  me  all  alone." 

She  knew  who  he  was  now. 

"  Cousin  !  Cousin  Samuel,  come  with  him.  It  is  never  too 
late.  Cousin,  there  is  time  yet  to  lead  a  good  life  in  a  new  coun- 
try, with  Reuben  by  your  side.  Let  us  three  leave  here  to-niglit 
together,  cousin,  and  set  our  backs  forever  to  all  this  evil  and  tliis 
forgetfulncss  of  God.     Come,  cousin." 


222  THE  HILLYAKS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  /  can  never  go,  my  poor  cliilcl,"  said  the  convict.  "  And, 
even  if  I  let  Reuben  go,  (for  he  'd  stay  by  me  through  every- 
thing,) I  lose  my  only  son  forever." 

"  Not  forever.  Why  forever?  Raise  yourself  to  his  level, 
and  don't  seek  to  drag  him  down  to  yours.  There  is  good  in 
your  heart  yet,  cou>in ;  for  your  hand  trembles  as  I  speak. 
Hah  !  I  have  conquered.     Oh,  thank  God  !  I  have  conquered  ! " 

So  she  had.  Samuel  Burton  drew  her  arm  through  his,  and 
led  her  away,  while  the  others  stood  silent.  Emma  saw  she  had 
been  right  in  appealing  to  him.  He  was  evidently  a  man  of 
authority.  There  was  little  doubt,  from  the  deference  which  was 
shown  him  by  the  others,  that  he  was  by  far  the  greatest  rogue 
in  the  house. 

He  led  her  up  stairs,  through  a  different  way  from  that  by 
which  she  had  come  in,  and  she  found  herself  in  a  parlor,  one 
side  of  which  was  of  glass,  beyond  which  was  evidently  the  bar, 
for  she  heard  the  drinkers  talking ;  and  in  this  parlor  there  was 
no  one  but  Reuben,  fast  asleep  on  a  settle. 

"  Go  up  and  speak  to  him,"  said  Samuel,  in  a  whisper. 

Emma  went  up  and  shook  him  by  the  shoulder.  "  Reuben, 
dear,"  she  said,  "get  up  and  come  home.  Jim  and  Joe  's  a  sitting 
up  waiting  for  you ;  and  father,  he  wants  to  see  you  before  he 
goes  to  bed.     Look  sharp." 

Reuben  rose  up,  and  looked  at  her  sleepily.  "  Why,  Emma, 
old  girl,"  he  said,  "  I  thought  I  was  at  the  Cross  Keys !  So  I 
am,  by  gad !     How  did  you  come  here  ?  " 

"  I  came  after  you.     Look  sharp." 

Reuben  looked  again  in  wonder,  and  saw  Samuel  Burton. 
"  Father,"  he  said,  "  am  I  to  go  back  there  ?  " 

"Yes,  Reuben.  Go  back  with  her,  —  go  back,  and  don't 
come  here  any  more." 

"  Are  you  coming  ?  "  said  Reuben. 

"  Not  I,  my  boy.  We  must  part  for  the  present.  Go  with 
her.     Say  good-bye  to  me,  and  go." 

"  Why  ?  I  don't  want  to  desert  you,  iiither.  Emma  ain't  the 
girl  to  advise  a  man  to  pitch  his  own  father  overboard  ;  more 
particularly,  as  in  the  present  case,  on  the  top  of  a  strong  ebb 
tide,  with  the  wind  west,  and  a  deal  more  land-water  coming 
down  after  the  late  rains,  or  else  I  'm  no  waterman.  Emma  ain't 
here  to-night  to  tell  me  to  cut  the  only  rope  that  holds  my  own 
father  to  the  hope  of  better  things :  not  if  she 's  the  young  wo- 
man I  take  her  for,  she  ain't." 

And  so  well  did  poor  Reuben  put  his  case,  that  Emma,  for  a 
moment,  thought  she  was  n't.  But  Samuel  Burton  came  in  on 
the  right  side,  with  one  of  those  facile  lies  which  had  grown 
from  long  practice  to  be  far  more  easy  to  him  than  the  truth. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  223 

"  I  tell  you,  boy,  that  you  must  go  with  her.  Your  presence 
here  endaiigors  both  of  us.  vShe  has  tracked  you  here  to-night, 
and  tlie  traps  are  not  far  oi\\  as  your  sense  will  tell  you.  There 
are  not  two  safe  minutes  left  to  say  good-bye " 

Here  Emma,  with  an  instinct  of  good-breeding  which  would 
have  done  honor  to  any  lady  in  the  land,  went  outside  the  door, 
and  left  them  alone  together.  And  outside  the  door,  she  found 
the  Bardolph,  nee  Tearsheet,  who  said,  "  Well,  Miss  Burton,  I 
have  served  you  well  to-night." 

And  Emma  said,  "  God  bless  you  for  it,  —  nobly." 

"  I  supj)08e  you  would  n't  make  no  amends  for  it  ?  I  suppose 
you  would  n't  do  nothing  in  return  as  I  asked  you  ?  " 

"  I  will  do  anything.  God,  who  has  saved  one  who  is  very 
dear  to  me,  from  ruin,  to-night,  is  my  witness,  Mrs.  Bardolph." 

"  Well,  when  you  're  a  saying  of  your  prayers,  which  you 
says  them  constant,  as  you  give  me  to  understand  when  I  had 
the  fever,  and  wanted  me  to  do  it  also,  —  when  you  says  'em, 
take  and  say  one  for  me.  '  Lord ! '  says  you,  '  I  don't  uphold 
her  in  nothink  as  she 's  done,  but  it  was  n't  all  her  fault,'  —  There, 
there 's  your  sweetheart.  You  'd  best  go.  Let  me  send  out 
that  little  devil,  Ben,  to  see  if  the  traps  is  clear.     Ben  !  Ben ! " 

Ben,  although  he  had  been,  a  very  short  time  before,  brutally 
knocked  on  to  the  top  of  the  kitchen  fire,  and  had  lain  stunned 
for  some  time,  was  up  to  the  mark,  and  appeared,  with  the  in- 
domitable pluck  of  his  nation,  ready  for  action.  He  was  very 
pale  and  ill,  but  he  winked  at  Emma,  and  hoped,  in  a  weak 
voice,  that  her  young  man  w^as  n't  jealous,  for  the  girls  was 
always  a  running  after  him.  Having  done  his  patrol,  he  came 
back  and  reported  an  entire  absence  of  the  executive  arm, 
whether  in  the  uniform  of  their  country,  or  disguised  in  the 
habiliments  of  private  citizens.  Arrd  then,  Emma  liavmg  caught 
him  up  and  kissed  him  a  dozen  times,  the  two  cousins  departed. 


224  THE  HILLYAES  AND  THE  BURTONS. 


CHAPTER    XLIII. 

EMMA   GIVES   THE  KEY  TO   THE   LANDLORD. 

"  My  dear  Gerty,"  said  Sir  George,  looking  up  from  his  din- 
ner at  his  wife,  "I  expect  an  old  acquaintance  of  yours  here 
this  evening." 

"  And  who  is  that,  my  dear  ?  —  an  Australian  ?  " 

"  No  ;  it  is  only  young  Burton,  the  waterman.  I  think  you 
used  to  like  him." 

"  Indeed,  I  like  him  very  much." 

"  I  am  very  glad  to  hear  that,  Gerty,  my  love ;  for  I  was 
thinking  of  providing  for  him,  as  an  under-keeper  at  Stanlake, 
if  you  did  n't  object." 

"  I  object,  George  !  I  am  very  fond  of  him,  indeed.  He 
puts  me  in  mind  of  a  merry  young  man  (a  hand,  I  regret  to  say) 
that  my  father  had,  —  Billy  Dargan." 

"  Do  you  mean  Dargan  who  was  hung  for  piracy  ?  " 

"  The  very  same.  How  clever  of  you  to  know  that,  for  he 
was  hung  before  your  time ! " 

"  Good  heavens,  Gerty !  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  poor  Reu- 
ben puts  you  in  mind  of  that  fellow  ?  " 

"  To  a  most  extraordinary  degree,"  said  Gerty,  looking  up ; 
and  then,  seeing  she  was  somehow  making  a  terrible  mistake, 
adding,  "  I  mean  in  his  way  of  tying  his  handkerchief.  And 
there  is  also  an  indescribable  style  about  his  legs,  a  kind  of  horn- 
pipy  expression  about  them,  Which  forcibly  recalls  poor  Dargan's 
legs  to  my  mind  at  this  moment." 

"  I  was  afraid  you  meant  that  they  were  alike  in  expression 
of  face." 

"  Oh,  good  gracious,  how  ridiculous ! "  said  Gerty,  who  had 
meant  it,  nevertheless.  "  The  idea  !  Fancy  poor  Reuben  cut- 
ting a  skipper's  throat,  and  throwing  the  crew  overboard,  and 
practising  at  them  with  a  rifle !  What  can  make  you  think  of 
such  wicked  things,  you  ridiculous  old  stupid?" 

"  You  '11  be  kind  to  him  then,  Gerty,  old  girl  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  I  will,  Georgy.  I  '11  be  kind  to  anything  or  any- 
body that  you  like.  I  '11  be  most  affectionate  to  him,  I  assure 
you.     Lor  !     My  word  !     I  wonder  what  Aggy  is  at  now  ?  " 

"  Fast  asleep  in  bed,  dear.  Nine  hours  difference  in  time, 
you  know." 

"  Yes ;  that 's  very  curious.     It  quite  reminds  me  of  Joshua 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  225 

putting  back  the  dial  of  Ahaz,  —  I  mean  Ahasuerus.  "What  a 
goose  I  must  be !  though  I  don't  believe  you  know  the  differ- 
ence, you  dear  old  heathen.     I  say,  George," 

«  Yes,  Gerty." 

"  When  are  we  going  back  to  Cooksland,  dear  ?  " 

"To  Cooksland?" 

"  Yes,  dear.  Lesbia  and  Phelim  O'Ryan  are  going  back  next 
month.     It  would  be  rather  nice  to  go  with  them,  would  n't  it  ?  " 

George,  the  baronet,  with  ten  thousand  a  year,  had  not  much 
notion  of  going  back  there  at  all,  as  you  may  suppose.  But  he 
did  not  wish  to  break  the  fact  to  Gerty  suddenly.  Gerty,  in 
good  humor,  was  a  very  pleasant  companion  ;  but  a  lachrymose 
and  low-spirited  Gerty  was,  as  he  knew  by  experience,  enough 
to  drive  far  less  irritable  men  than  he  out  of  their  senses.  Her 
infinite  silliness  sat  most  prettily  on  her  when  she  was  cheerful 
and  happy ;  but  her  silliness,  wdien  superadded  to  chronic, 
whimpering,  low  spirits,  was  unendurable.  And,  moreover,  he 
had  acquired  a  certain  sort  of  respect  for  Gerty.  Silly  as  she 
was,  she  had  played  her  cards  well  enough  to  make  his  father 
destroy  the  obnoxious  will.  He  could  not  deny,  he  thought, 
that  all  their  present  prosperity  was  owing  to  her.  Luck  had 
prevented  his  father  making  a  new  will,  but  Gerty's  beauty  and 
childishness  had  most  undoubtedly  been  the  cause  of  his  destroy- 
ing the  old  one.  He  gave  that  sort  of  respect  to  Gerty  which 
is  generally  accorded  to  fortunate  legatees,  —  the  respect  and  ad- 
miration, in  short,  which  we  are  most  of  us  prepared  to  pay  to 
luck.     So  he  temporized. 

"  My  love,"  he  said,  "  you  know  that  the  colony  is  not  healthy 
for  very  young  children.     You  must  know  that." 

She  was  obliged  to  confess  that  it  was  very  notorious. 

"  We  must  wait  until  baby  is  stronger,  —  we  must,  indeed. 
Just  think  of  poor  Professor  Brown's  children,  —  not  one  left  in 
two  years." 

She  acquiesced  with  a  sigh.  "You  know  best,  dear.  But, 
oh  !  George,  this  dreadful  winter !     Think  of  the  cold  !  " 

"  We  will  go  to  Italy,  dear.  You  will  never  regret  Australia 
there.     Halloa,  here  comes  Reuben.     Let  us  have  him  in." 

And  so  poor  Reuben  was  had  in.  He  looked  a  good  deal  older 
and  more  sobered  than  when  we  first  knew  him  at  Stanlake,  but 
not  in  other  respects  altered,  —  changed  in  degree,  but  not  in 
C[uality,  —  a  little  low-spirited  under  recent  events,  but  not  at  all 
disinclined  to  be  as  slangy  and  merry  as  ever  as  soon  as  the  sua 
should  shine. 

"  Jim  told  me  you  wanted  to  speak  to  me,  sir." 

"  Quite  right.  I  want  to  know  what  you  are  thinking  of  do- 
ing.    I  wish  to  help  you." 

10*  O 


226  THE    HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"I'm  a-going  to  Australia,  sir,  with  ray  cousins.  They  have 
been  very  kind,  sir.  Whether  it  was  their  natural  kindness,  or 
whether  it  was  my  cousin  Emma  who  influenced  them,  or  partly 
both,  I  don't  know  ;  but  after  all  the  sorrow,  and  trouble,  and  dis- 
grace I  have  caused  them,  they  took  me  back  again,  as  if  nothing 
had  happened.  Any  one  would  have  thought  that  I  had  always 
been  an  honor  to  them,  and  that  I  had  just  done  'em  some  great 
kindness.  The  old  man,  he  says  —  'Reuben,  my  boy,  I'm  glad 
to  see  you  home  again.  It 's  a  poor  place  and  will  be  a  poorer, 
my  old  chap,'  he  says ;  '  but,  such  as  it  is,  you  're  welcome  to  it.' 
And  so  I  am  sroino^  to  Australia  with  them." 

"  But  have  you  got  any  money  to  go  with  ?  " 

"  No,  sir,"  said  Reuben.  "  They  are  going  to  take  me,  and  I 
am  to  make  it  TOod  afterwards." 

"  But  you  would  not  go  if  you  were  offered  a  good  situation  in 
England  ?  " 

"  I  'd  rather  not  go,"  said  Reuben.  "  But  I  am  doubtful  how 
they  would  take  it." 

"  George,"  said  Gerty,  suddenly  and  eagerly,  "  order  the  car- 
riage for  me,  and  let  me  go  to  these  people  and  represent  the 
matter  to  them.     I  will  make  it  all  right  for  you.     Let  me  go." 

George  felt  sincerely  obliged  to  his  wife  for  her  readiness  to 
antici{)ate  his  wishes ;  but  it  was  not  that  which  made  Gerty  so 
eager  about  the  matter.  No ;  these  people,  these  Burtons,  had 
suddenly  become  sacred  and  important  people  in  her  eyes.  For 
were  they  not  going  to  that  sunny  happy  land  where  she  was 
born ;  would  they  not  soon  see,  with  the  actual  eyes  of  the  Hesh, 
and  not  in  dreams,  as  she  did,  that  dear  old  home  of  hers,  which, 
she  began  to  feel,  she  herself  would  never,  nev^er,  see  again  ? 

She  drove  hurriedly  to  Chelsea,  and  the  coachman  soon  found 
the  place  for  her.  She  was  nearly  too  late.  The  great  house 
was  empty  and  the  rooms  all  desolate :  but  the  door  was  not  yet 
shut,  the  neighbors  told  her,  and  there  was  some  one  in  the  house 
still ;  so  Gerty,  not  a  bit  frightened,  after  knocking  once  or  twice, 
at  the  door,  went  in,  and  entered  the  great  room  on  the  lower 
Hoor,  where  the  family  were  accustomed  to  live. 

All  deserted,  melancholy,  cold,  and  dead,  the  room  was  no  more 
a  room  now  than  is  the  corpse  you  put  into  the  coffin  your  friend. 
Life,  motion,  and  sound  were  gone  from  it,  and  there  was  no 
expression  in  it,  save  the  blank  stare  of  death.  The  old  walls 
•which,  when  partly  covered  with  furniture,  used  to  laugh  and 
wink  from  fifty  projections  in  the  firelight,  now  stared  down,  four 
cold,  bare,  white  expanses,  on  little  Gerty  standing  in  the  middle 
of  the  room,  all  in  black.  She  had  never  happened  to  see  a  dis- 
mantled home  before,  and  her  gentle  little  soul  was  saddened  by 
it ;  and  she  yearned  to  be  with  those  that  were  gone,  in  the  happy 
land  far  awaj. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  RURTONS.  227 

She  noticed  the  empty  open  cuphoards  ;  nails  upon  tlie  wall ; 
the  marks  where  a  few  j>ictures  had  hiiiig;  and  tlie  few  things 
which  were  left  lying  about.  They  were  very  few,  only  such 
things  as  were  deemed  unworthy  of  removal,  —  a  scrap  of  carpet 
■with  holes  in  it,  or  more  correctly,  some  holes,  with  a  little  car|)(;t 
round  them ;  a  hearth-broom,  whicli  reminded  her,  she  said  after- 
wards, of  Lieutenant  Tomkins  of  the  Black  Police,  for  it  had 
shaved  off  its  beard  and  whiskers,  and  only  wore  a  slight  mus- 
tache ;  a  bandbox,  which  had  been  fighting,  and  got  its  head 
broken  ;  and  a  dog  of  Fred's  with  his  bellows  broken  off.  The 
foolish  little  woman  felt  sorry  for  these  things.  She  thought  they 
must  feel  very  lonely  at  being  left  behind,  and  went  so  far  as  to 
take  pity  on  Fred's  dog,  and  hire  it  for  the  service  of  Baby. 
And  when  she  had  done  this,  knowing  that  there  were  people  in 
the  house  somewhere,  she,  as  adventurous  a  little  body,  in  warm 
weather,  as  you  would  easily  find,  determined  to  go  up  stairs,  — 
and  up  she  went ;  and  in  course  of  time  she  came  to  the  vast  room 
on  the  first  floor,  so  often  described  by  the  young  blacksmith  in 
these  pages,  and  peeped  in. 

It  was  all  bare,  empty,  and  dismantled.  There  was  nothing  in 
it.  But  two  peoj^le  stood  together  in  one  of  the  many  windows 
which  looked  westward ;  and  they  stood  so  still  and  silent,  and 
looked  so  strange  and  small  in  the  midst  of  the  majestic  desola- 
tion, that  Gerty  stood  still  too,  and  was  afraid  to  speak. 

They  were  a  young  man  and  a  young  woman,  and  the  young 
woman  said,  "  You  hardly  did  right  in  coming  back  this  afternoon, 
when  you  knew  I  was  all  alone.     Did  you  now  ?  " 

"I  don't  know,  and  I  don't  care,  Emma.  I  knew  that  yours 
was  to  be  the  last  footstep  which  crossed  the  threshold  and  left 
the  dear  old  house  to  darkness  and  solitude,  and  I  determined  to 
be  with  you.  Loving  you  so  madly  as  I  do,  every  board  in  these 
rooms  which  you  have  walked  on  is  sacred  to  me  by  the  mere 
tread  of  your  footstep.  So  I  determined  to  see  the  last  of  the 
house  with  you,  who  are  the  cause  of  my  loving  it,  and  who  get 
dearer  to  me  day  by  day  and  hour  by  hour." 

"  Erne  !  Elrne  !  don't  drive  me  mad.  You  have  no  rio^ht  to  talk 
to  me  like  this." 

"  I  have.  You  gave  it  once.  Do  you  think  you  can  recall  it  ? 
Never !  I  have  the  right  to  talk  to  you  like  this  until  you  can 
look  me  in  the  face  and  tell  me  that  you  do  not  love  me.  And 
when  will  that  be,  hey  ?  " 

"  Never,"  she  answered,  "  as  you  well  know.  Are  you  deter- 
mined, cruelly,  to  make  me  undergo  my  lull  punishment  tor  two 
days'  indiscretion  ?  " 

"  Yes  ;  there  is  no  escape  but  one.     I  am  determined." 

"  And  so  am  I,"  said  Emma,  wearily.     "  It  is  time  to  go,  is  it 


228  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

not  ?  Are  you  going  to  persist  in  your  mad  refusal  of  your  share 
of  the  pro})erty  ?  " 

"  Let  hiin  give  it  me  then.  I  will  never  ask  him  for  it,"  re- 
plied Erne. 

"  What  insanity !  "  she  repeated.  "  When  Mr.  Compton  tells 
you  that  your  share  of  the  personal  property  would  be  nearly 
enough  to  keep  you  in  England." 

''  I  will  never  ask  for  it." 

"  You  mean  that  you  will  follow  me,  and  bring  yourself  to  my 
level." 

By  this  time  Gerty  had  fully  satisfied  herself  that  she  was 
eavesdropping,  and,  hearing  her  husband's  name  mentioned,  felt 
it  high  time  to  say,  "  Ahem ! "  Whereupon  the  couple  in  the 
window  turned ;  and  Erne  and  she  recognized  one  another,  and, 
Erne  running  to  her,  she  fairly  threw  her  arms  round  his  neck, 
and  hugged  him. 

"  My  dear  Erne,  to  find  you  here !  You  never  did,  you  know. 
And  your  pretty  sweetheart,  too ;  you  must  give  me  a  kiss,  dear 
Emma !  do  you  remember  the  day  I  nearly  fainted  in  church,  and 
you  put  your  arm  round  me  ?  My  dear,  you  are  the  very  person 
I  wanted.  Sir  George  sent  me  here  to  say  that  he  is  willing  to 
provide  handsomely  for  Reuben,  if  you  won't  be  offended  at  his 
staying  behind.  Reuben  wants  your  father  to  have  it  explained 
to  him  that  he  is  not  ungrateful,  but  the  contrary.  You  '11  un- 
dertake to  square  matters,  won't  you  ?  What  were  you  and 
Erne  quarrelling  about  just  now  ?  I  want  you  to  tell  me  ;  be- 
cause, in  return  for  your  making  the  peace  between  Reuben  and 
your  father,  I  will  set  matters  all  right  between  Erne  and  you. 
Come,  now,  tell  me  ?  " 

Erne  said  that  it  was  only  an  outbreak  of  violence  on  Emma's 
part. 

"  Oh  !  that  is  nothino;.  George  is  like  that  sometimes.  Are 
you  two  married  ?  " 

Erne  said  "  No.     Not  yet." 

"  If  I  was  in  your  place,  I  should  send  down  to  the  township 
for  the  parson,  and  get  tied  up  right  away.  That  will  be  the 
real  peppermint,  you  '11  find ;  because,  you  see,  dear,  now  that 
your  father  and  all  your  brothers  and  sisters  are  gone,  you  '11 
find  it  lonely." 

"  I  am  going  with  them,  ma'am,"  said  poor  Emma. 

"  Oh  dear !  I  hope  you  have  not  broken  with  Erne.  My 
sweetest  girl,  he  loves  the  ground  you  walk  on.  Oh  my  good 
gracious  goodness  me  !  why,  he  never  used  to  talk  to  one  about 
anything  else.  I  never  was  so  sorry ;  I  'd  sooner  that  the  gar- 
den was  a-firc  ;  I  'd  sooner  that  all  the  sheep  were  adrift  in  the 
Mallee  ;  I  'd  sooner  that  the  Honeysuckle  dam  was  mopped  up 
as  dry  as  Sturt  Street ;  I  'd  sooner  — " 


THE  HTLLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  229 

"  Gerty,  dear,"  said  Erne,  arresting  her  in  lier  Homeric  cata- 
logue of  the  evils  which  come  on  those  who  have  fallen  under 
the  anger  of  the  gods  (in  Australia),  and  taking  her  aside, 
'"•Nothing  is  broken  off.     I  am  going  to   Cooksland  too." 

Gcrty,  having  been  suddenly  shunted  off  one  line  of  rails, 
while  at  full  speed,  and  being  very  much  astonished,  put  on  all 
her  breaks  and  stopped ;  which  gave  Erne  time  to  go  on. 

'•  ]\[y  dearest  sister,  you  can  be  of  most  inestimable  service  to 
us.  I  could  not  get  at  you  (you  know  why,  dear),  and  it  seems  a 
f;i)e('ial  Providence,  my  having  met  you  here.  What  I  want 
done  is  this :  go  home  and  write  letters  to  your  sister  and  broth- 
er-in-law, introducing  me  and  the  Burtons.  Say  all  that  you 
can  about  us.  Do  the  best  you  can,  and  send  these  letters,  to 
this  address.  Above  all,  dear  Gerty,  do  this.  Now,  I  am  very 
much  in  enruest,  dear,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  do  as  I  ask  you. 
Tell  George  every  particular  about  this  interview,  and  what  I 
have  asked  you  to  do,  before  you  put  pen  to  paper.  "Will  you 
promise  me  this  ?  " 

Yes,  she  would  promise  it,  if  need  were  ;  but,  did  n't  Erne 
think,  that  under  the  circumstances,  eh  ?  And  James  could  do 
so  much  for  them,  too.  And  if  George  ivere  to  forbid  her  to 
write? 

Erne  said,  "  He  will  give  you  leave,  Gerty.  I  '11  bet  you  a 
pair  of  gloves  he  does.  George  is  justly  and  righteously  angry 
with  me  just  now,  but  he  '11  forgive  me  some  day  :  when  I  am 
worthy  of  his  forgiveness.  When  I  have  made  my  fortune, 
Gerty,  I  will  come  and  kneel  at  his  feet.  He  would  suspect  me 
now  I  am  poor.     Now,  good-bye." 

Tlio-e  three  came  out  of  the  old  house  into  the  summer  sun- 
shine, and  Emma  came  last,  and  then  turned  and  locked  the 
door.  Thomas  Cromwell,  Earl  of  Essex,  son  of  the  blacksmith 
at  Putney,  first  opened  that  hospitable  old  door,  and  now  Emma 
Burton,  daughter  of  the  blacksmith  at  Chelsea,  locked  it  up 
forever. 

When  mighty  America  was  only  a  small  irregular  line  on  the 
chart  of  the  world,  that  pile  of  brick  and  stone  was  built  up ; 
and  we,  poor  worms  of  a  day,  have  seen  it  stand  there,  and  have 
weaved  a  child's  fancies  about  it.  I,  who  write,  remember  well 
that,  on  my  return  home,  after  a  long  residence  in  the  most  fire- 
new  of  all  sucking  empires,  constructed  with  the  highest  im- 
provements,—  gas,  universal  suffrage,  telegraphs,  religious  toler- 
ation, and  all,  —  it  was  a  great  wonder  to  me,  living  in  a  house 
which  had  actually  been  built  nearly  sixty  years.  I  remember 
that,  at  lirst,  the  date  of  every  building  I  saw,  and  the  reflections 
as  to  what  had  happened  since  that  building  was  put  up,  had  au 
intense  interest  for  me.     A  Londoner  passes  Westminster  Abbey 


230  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

every  clay  in  the  week,  and  it  is  Westminster  Abbey  to  him,  and 
there  is  a  cab-stand  at  the  corner:  but,  if  you  want  to  know  what 
veneration  for  antiquity  means,  you  must  go  to  an  American  or 
to  an  Australian  to  find  out :  you  must  follow  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Nalder,  through  Westminster  Abbey, — taking  care  they  don't  see 
you,  or  they  will  immediately  vilipend  the  whole  affair,  for  the 
honor  of  old  Chicago. 

So  Emma,  preparing  for  her  flight  from  the  country  of  im- 
pertinent sparrows,  to  the  country  of  still  more  impertinent  par- 
rakeets,  locked  the  door,  and  ended  the  history  of  Church  Place 
as  a  home.  Hereafter,  during  the  short  space  that  the  old  house 
stood,  no  lover  lingered  about  the  door  in  the  summer  twilight, 
for  the  chance  of  one  more  sweet  whisper ;  no  children  played 
about  the  door-step,  or  sent  the  echoes  of  their  voices  ringing 
through  the  lofty  rooms ;  no  blushing,  fluttering  bride  passed  in 
to  her  happiness  j  and  no  coffin  was  ever  carried  forth,  save  one. 


CHAPTER    XLIV. 

JAMES    BURTON'S    STORY:    OUR   VOYAGE,   WITH  A  LONG    DE- 
SCRIPTION  OF   SOME   QUEER   FISH  THAT   WE   SAW. 

I  KNOW  that  my  love  for  Erne  Hillyar  was,  at  first,  only  one 
of  those  boy-friendships  which  I  suppose  all  boys  have  had  ; 
which  after  a  time  fade  away,  and  then  flow  strong  again  for 
another  object ;  or,  if  there  be  no  new  object,  simply  wear  out  into 
a  kind  of  half-jealous  regret.  "  He  don't  care  for  me  as  he  used,'* 
you  say  mournfully  ;  no,  but  how  much  do  you  care  for  him,  my 
good  friend?  Would  you  go  into  the  next  street  to  meet  him,  if 
it  would  prevent  your  going  ten  miles  to  get  ten  minutes  with 
Mary  ?  I  think  not.  These  boy  passions  die  out  to  a  certain 
limit,  and  to  a  certain  limit  only  ;  for  there  is  always  a  tender- 
ness left  for  the  old  boy  after  all.  Tom  must  always  have  re- 
served for  him  the  inestimable  and  delicious  privilege  of  being 
bored  to  death  with  the  catalogue  of  Mary's  perfections,  until  he 
mentally  howls  at  the  mention  of  that  dear  creature's  name ;  and 
Tom  must  be  your  best  man  at  the  wedding,  if  procurable,  be- 
cause the  renewal  of  the  old  tendresse  on  that  particular  occasion 
is  something  sentimentally  good  and  graceful,  even  if  it  is  the 
finish  and  end  of  the  whole  business,  —  for  which  result  there  is 
no  possible  reason. 

But  my  friendship  for  Erne  was  not  of  this  kind  altogether, 


THE  niLLYARS  AND  THE   BURTONS.  231 

for  It  grew  and  developed.  IMartlia  never  came  between  liirii 
and  me  for  a  moment.  I  feU  in  love  with  Martha,  —  well, 
principally,  I  believe,  because  I  fell  in  love  with  her.  Come, 
sir,  wliat  made  you  fall  in  love  with  your  wife  ?  Don't 
know.  No  more  do  I  know  why  I  fell  in  love  with  my  wife, 
unless  it  was  her  spraining  her  ankle  on  the  slide  by  Clerken- 
well  Prison,  and  having  no  one  to  take  her  home.  But,  hav- 
ing once  fallen  in  love  with  her,  I  began  to  find  out,  by  degrees, 
what  a  noble,  excellent  little  body  slie  was ;  and  so  my«love  for 
her  grew  and  grew,  and  I  would  not  like  to  swear  (though  I 
shouhl  not  like  her  to  know  it)  that  it  has  reached  its  full  de- 
velopment yet.  And  yet,  the  more  I  loved  Martha,  the  more 
my  friendship  for  Erne  became  part  of  myself  For,  having  in- 
herited from  my  mother  the  trick  of  living,  save  on  special  emer- 
gencies, in  the  future,  or  in  the  past,  or  anywhere  but  in  the 
present,  I  had  gradually  built  up  for  myself  a  palace  of  fancy, 
quite  as  beautiful  as  you  could  expect  from  a  mere  blacksmith's 
lad,  in  which  palace  Martha  and  I  were  to  live  forever  in  com- 
fort by  the  products  of  my  trade,  and  in  which  also  Erne  and 
Emma  were  to  take  up  their  abode  with  us,  and  live  on,  —  say 
manna  or  quails  :  details  are  contemptible.  I  fancy,  if  my  recol- 
lection serves  me,  that  part  of  the  scheme  was  that  Martha  and 
I  were  to  have  four  children,  two  boys  and  two  girls,  exceedingly 
beautiful  and  good  ;  and  that,  when  we  had  arrived  at  this  point, 
we  were  to  stop,  —  which  we  haven't.  I  think  also,  at  one 
time,  after  having  seen  a  certain  picture,  that  I  intended  to  have 
another  and  a  fifth  child,  who  was  to  die  beautifully  in  infancy, 
and  to  do  something  absolutely  tremendous,  in  a  sentimental 
point  of  view,  on  its  death-bed.  I  don't  know  how  long  this  last 
fancy,  —  thank  God,  only  a  fancy,  —  endured  ;  but  I  do  know 
that  this  dear  martyr  was  the  only  one  of  my  five  children  for 
whom  I  sketched  out  any  future  whatever.  The  other  four  were 
to  remain  children,  ranging  in  age  from  two  years  to  seven,  until 
Martha  and  I,  gray-headed  in  the  character  of  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
Anderson,  were  borne  together  (having  died  the  same  day,  —  a 
matter  of  detail  easily  arranged  on  a  future  opportunity)  into  the 
church-yard  of  the  late  ingenious  Mr.  Gray's  "  Elegy,"  followed 
by  a  sorrowing  population. 

Erne  and  Emma  had  become  so  necessary  a  part  of  this  day- 
dream, and  this  day-dream  moreover  had  become  such  a  very 
necessary  part  of  myself,  that  I  was  more  distressed  than  you  can 
well  conceive  at  tlie  estrangement  between  them.  The  more  so, 
because  I  did  not  for  one  moment  share  Erne's  hope  of  any  alter- 
ation taking  place  in  Emma's  resolution.  Whether  I  judged  on 
this  matter  from  reason  or  from  instinct  I  hardly  know ;  which- 
ever  it  was,  my  conclusion  was  the  same.     I  had  a  profound 


232  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

faith  in  a  certain  quiet  determination  which  I  saw  now  in  Em- 
ma's face,  and  which  in  my  moments  of  irritation,  —  an  irritation, 
however,  which  I  never  outwardly  showed,  —  I  called  obstinacy. 
I  had  my  sanguine  moods,  however.  There  was  a  gentle,  ten- 
der, and  yet  unobtrusive  assiduity  about  Erne's  attentions  to  her, 
which  gave  me  great  hopes.  No  woman,  I  thought,  could  resist 
that  sort  of  thing  long,  particularly  a  woman  who  loved  him  as 
she  loved  him.  Alas  !  though  I  knew  it  not,  it  was  her  very 
love  for  Jiim  which  gave  her  the  strength  to  resist  him.  When 
my  mother  told  me  what  she  had  said,  "  He  must  rise,  and  I 
should  only  drag  him  down,"  I  lost  hope  again.  That  motive, 
superadded  to  her  devotion  to  poor  Joe,  made  my  day-dream  fade 
away  once  more. 

Now,  being  in  a  certain  line  of  business  myself,  I  made  the 
remarkable  discovery,  which  has  been  confirmed  by  later  experi- 
ence on  my  own  part,  and  by  comparison  of  notes  with  eminent 
travellers  from  all  quarters  of  the  globe,  that  there  is  no  such  a 
place  for  courting  as  aboard  ship.  Even  suppose  that  the  ship 
completed  her  voyage  on  a  perfectly  even  keel,  without  any  mo- 
tion whatever,  —  even  in  that  extreme  case  you  would  have  the 
great  advantage  of  constant  intercourse.  But  then  she  don't  j 
but,  on  the  contrary,  rolls,  dives,  and  leaps  like  a  mad  thing, 
tliree  quarters  of  her  time,  and  by  this  means  actually,  as  well 
as  metaphorically,  so  throws  young  people  together,  —  gives  rise 
to  such  a  necessity  for  small  attentions,  —  that  it 's  wonder  to 
me  sometimes,  —  when  in  one  of  my  mother's  moods,  why,  on 
the  arrival  of  the  ship  into  port,  all  the  unmarried  couples  on 
board  don't  pair  off,  and  go  straight  off  to  church  to  get  mar- 
ried.* 

One  day  of  one  long  voyage  comes  before  me  particularly 
clearly.  And  yet,  as  I  write,  I  cannot  say  that  all  the  little  cir- 
cumstances which  I  tell  took  place  on  that  day  or  on  several ; 
for  at  sea  Time  is  naught,  but  his  mechanical  and  earthly  eidola, 
latitude  and  longitude,  take  his  place.  I  can't  tell  you  in  what 
month  this  day  (or  these  days,  it  may  be)  fell ;  but  it  was  in  the 
trades,  though  whether  N.  E.  or  S.  E.  I  cannot  at  this  period  un- 
dertake to  remember.     Yes,  it  was  in  the  trades. 

For  all  space  was  filled  with  a  divine  gray-blue  effulgence, 
which  has,  to  my  wandering  fancy,  always  seemed  to  be  the 
trade-wind  itself,  —  the  only  visible  wind  I  know  of.  It  was  not 
too  hot  nor  too  cold,  nor  too  bright  nor  too  dull ;  and  the  ship 
was  going  fast,  and  heeling  over  enough  to  make  everything  you 
leant  against  more  pleasant  than  a  rocking-chair,  —  going  with  a 
gentle  heaving  motion,  for  which  it  would  be  absurd  to  hunt  up 

*  I  beg  to  call  the  Hon.  J.  Burton's  attention  to  the  fact  that  they  almost  al- 
ways do. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  233 

a  simile,  becaiii^e  there  is  nothing  so  wonderfully  delightful  where- 
with to  compare  it.  There  were  clouds,  slow  sailing  clouds,  but 
they  were  of  frosted  silver  ;  and  there  was  open  sky,  but  of  the 
\(.'v\  faintest  blue,  save  inimcdiately  overhead,  where  the  delicate 
needle  of  a  top-gallant  mast  swept  across  it  in  a  shortened  arc, 
and  where  it  was  a  faint  purple.  There  were  sounds, —  one  a 
gentle  universal  rush,  that  of  the  wind  itself,  fdling  space ;  and 
others,  supplementary  voices,  the  low  gentle  lapping  of  the  waves 
upon  the  ship's  side,  and  the  sleepy  gurgling  and  hissing  of  many 
eddies  around  her.  All  tilings  seemed  going  one  way  with  some 
settled  kindly  purpose.  The  clouds  seemed  to  be  leading  the 
wind,  and  the  wind  to  be  steadily  following  the  clouds,  while  the 
jturple  waves,  a  joyous  busy  crowd,  seemed  to  be  hurrying  on 
after  both  of  them,  to  some  unknown  trysting-place.  Yes,  I 
know  we  were  in  the  trades."* 

Martha  was  sitting  on  the  top  of  some  spare  spars  under  the 
lee  bulwark,  and  I  was  sitting  beside  her,  but  on  a  lower  level, 
and  a  little  more  forward,  so  that  I  had  to  lean  backwards  when- 
ever I  w^anted  to  look  in  her  face.  And  this  was  a  very  nice 
arrangement,  because  I  generally  found  that  she  was  looking  at 
me,  and  I  caught  the  soft,  quiet  gaze  of  her  deep  calm  love,  be- 
fore it  broke  into  the  gentle  smile  that,  —  Hallo  here,  hallo  ! 
this  will  never  do.  I  mean  that  it  was  a  very  good  place  to  sit 
in,  because  it  was  in  the  shade  under  one  of  the  boats,  and  we 
could  quietly  watch  every  one  else,  and  make  our  comments 
upon  them.  No  one  ever  took  the  trouble  to  watch  us.  Every 
one  knew  that  we  were  keeping  company.  We  were  rather 
favorites  in  the  ship  from  being  a  quiet  pair  of  bodies,  but  were 
otherwise  uninteresting. 

By  the  mainmast  was  my  father,  in  close  confabulation  with 
*'  Damper."  Now,  although  "  Damper  "  is  only  a  nickname,  and 
a  rather  low  one,  yet  you  are  not  to  suppose  that  the  gentleman 
who  owns  it  is  at  all  a  low  person.  He,  as  he  stands  there 
against  the  mainmast,  with  his  square  brown  face  and  grizzled 
hair,  against  my  ftither's  square  brown  fiice  and  grizzled  hair,  is 
a  most  resplendent  and  magnificent  gentleman.  His  clothes  are 
the  richest  and  best-made  that  London  can  give  him  ;  the  watch 
and  chain  he  wears  in  and  over  his  white  waistcoat  cost  more 
than  a  hundred  guineas ;  he  has  been  five-and-twenty  years  in 
Australia,  and  is  worth  very  nearly  half  a  million  of  money  ;  his 
style  and  titles  before  the  world  are  the  Honorable  Elijah  Daw- 
son. ]\I.  L.  C,  of  no  less  than  seven  places,  colonial  estates  of  his, 
with  names  apparently  made  up  by  a  committee  of  all  the  luua- 

*  Mr.  Henry  Burton  begs  to  state  that  the  whole  of  tlie  above  paragraph  is 
copied  verb'itim  from  his  log-book.  The  passage  as  it  stands  may  be  found  at  p. 
bb  of  his  '*  Miscellanies  in  Verse  aud  Prose."    Bleet.    Palinerston:  1858. 


234  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

tics  in  Bedlam  at  full  moon.  Yet  this  man  is  disrespectfully 
called  "  Damper,"  (which  is  a  low  colonialism,  a  common  name 
for  a  working  bullock,)  behind  his  back,  by  the  whole  ship's  com- 
pany ;  and  I,  —  I,  the  blacksmith's  lad,  —  have  that  man  under 
my  thumb  and  in  my  power  to  that  extent  that,  whenever  I  take 
the  liberty  of  being  in  company  with  him,  he  addresses  the  prin- 
cipal part  of  the  conversation  deferentially  to  me.  I  don't  know 
that  I  ever  should  have  the  heart  to  denounce  the  low-lived  vil- 
lain ;  but  it  IS  pleasant  to  hold  a  man  who  wears  a  hundred- 
guinea  watch,  as  it  were,  in  the  hollow  of  your  hand. 

The  truth  is  that  I  found  this  low  fellow  out  quite  accidentally. 
One  day,  going  on  board  the  ship  when  she  was  in  the  docks,  I, 
who  had  already  heard  what  a  great  man  he  was,  was  struck  not 
only  with  his  magnificent  appearance,  but  also  with  the  practical 
knowledge  he  showed,  connected  with  some  rather  delicate  ma- 
chinery, a  small  case  of  which  had  been  broken  open  by  careless 
men.  I  was  surprised  to  hear  him  tell  his  servant  carefully  to 
lubricate  the  articles  with  Rangoon  oil  before  they  were  repacked, 
to  keep  the  salt  air  from  them  ;  and  there  was  something  grand 
and  strange  in  finding  that  so  splendid  a  person  could  be  up  in 
such  details  as  these,  or  should  take  the  trouble  to  attend  to 
them.  But,  half  an  hour  after,  I  found  the  low-lived  impostor 
out.  Going  into  a  blacksmith's  forge  in  the  Commercial  Road, 
there  I  found  him.  His  coat  and  waistcoat  were  oiF;  his  hun- 
dred-guinea watch  was  laid  on  the  bench  among  the  tools ;  his 
head  was  bare ;  his  shirt-sleeves  were  turned  up  to  his  elbows ; 
and  he  was  engaged  in  welding  two  pieces  of  iron  together,  one 
of  the  smiths  assisting  him,  with  a  rapidity  and  dexterity  in  the 
use  of  his  hammer  which  proved  at  once  the  disgraceful  fact. 
This  legislator,  this  responsible  adviser  of  his  sovereign's  repre- 
sentative, this  millionnaire  aristocrat,  this  fellow  who  only  the 
week  before  had  disported  himself  in  the  presence  of  royalty  at 
St.  James's  with  breeches  and  silk  stockings  on  his  impostor's  legs 
and  silver  buckles  in  his  low-lived  shoes,  —  this  man  was  not  only 
a  blacksmith,  but  an  uncommon  good  one. 

I  don't  think  I  ever  felt  so  proud  of  the  old  British  empire  be- 
fore. I  wished  the  Queen  could  have  seen  him,  and  I  dare  say 
she  would  have  been  as  pleased  as  I  was.  But  the  Honorable 
Elijah  Dawson  did  not  see  it  in  this  light  at  all.  Every  one  who 
had  ever  heard  his  name,  from  her  Majesty  downwards,  knew 
that  this  great  Australian  millionnaire  had  been  a  blacksmith,  and 
he  knew  they  knew  it ;  it  was  the  crowning  point  of  his  honor ; 
and  yet  the  honest  fellow  was  most  amusingly  ashamed  of  it. 
When  I  found  him  in  the  shop,  he  put  on  his  coat  and  waistcoat, 
and  took  me  by  the  arm,  pushing  me  before  him  into  a  neighbor- 
ing public-house.  He  then  made  me  swallow  a  glass  of  strong 
waters  before  he  said  anything. 


THE  IIILLYAES  AND  THE  BURTONS.  235 

"  I  see  you  aboard  the  sliip  to-day." 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  You  're  a  smith  yourself,  ar'n't  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,  sir." 

"  Don't  say  notliinn^  about  ^^llat  you  see  me  doing  on.  I  'm 
a  friend  of  yours.  Don't  say  nothing  of  it  aboard  ship.  Tiicre  's 
PoUifex  and  Morton  aboard,  and  I  should  never  hear  the  last  on 
it.  It  was  that  Morton  as  christened  me  'Damper';  and  see 
how  that 's  stuck.  Hold  your  tongue,  my  boy,  and  I  'm  a  friend 
of  yours,  remember." 

And  so  he  was,  a  most  generous  and  kind  one.  "We  had  hardly 
got  to  sea  before  he  found  my  father  out.  The  two  men,  so  much 
of  an  age,  and  so  much  alike,  conceived  a  strong  liking  for  one 
another,  which,  as  you  may  guess,  was  of  immense  benefit  to  us, 

AVhom  else  do  Martha  and  I  see,  from  our  lair  under  the  boat? 
"Why,  PoUifex  and  Morton,  of  whom  our  friend,  Elijah  Dawson, 
stands  so  much  in  dread.  They  have  come  down  into  the  waist 
to  smoke  their  cigars,  and  are  leaning  against  the  capstan.  Let 
us,  with  the  assistance  of  my  brothers  Joe  and  Henry,  have  a 
look  at  these  two  typical  men ;  it  is  really  worth  the  time. 

The  Honorable  Abiram  PoUifex,  —  "Accommodation  PoUi- 
fex," '-  Footrot  PoUifex,"  "  Chimpausee  PoUifex,"  as  he  is  indif- 
ferently called  by  his  friends  and  enemies,  —  is  only  a  new  comer 
in  Cooksland,  having  migrated  thither  from  the  older  and  better- 
known  Australian  colony  of  Endractsland,  where,  for  a  consider- 
able number  of  years,  he  filled  the  post  (Harry  says  that  is  not 
good  English,  but  I  am  head  of  the  family,  and  will  use  what 
English  I  choose)  of  Colonial  Secretary.  His  great  political  ob- 
ject, consistently,  and  somewhat  skilfully  pursued  through  sixteen 
years,  precisely  corresponded  with  that  of  Sir  Robert  Walpole,  as 
described  by  Mr.  Carlyle,  "  To  keep  things  going,  and  to  keep 
himself,  Robert  Walpole,  on  the  top  of  them." 

I  am  not  sure  that  the  historical  parallel  between  these  two 
great  statesmen  need  stop  at  the  mere  statement  of  their  political 
motives.  There  is  a  certain  similarity  in  the  means  they  used  to 
attain  their  end.  They  both  bribed  as  hard  as  they  could,  and 
both  did  as  little  as  possible  in  the  way  of  legislation.  With  re- 
gard to  bribery,  Wali)ole  was  decidedly  the  greatest  man,  save  in 
intention ;  but,  with  regard  to  "  laissez  aller,''  Pollifex  beat  him 
hollow. 

PoUifex,  —  a  long,  lean,  lanthorn-jawed  Devonshire  squireen, 
known  through  all  the  old  West  country  for  his  bonhotmnie,  his 
amazing  powers  of  dry  humor,  and  wonderfully  remarkable  per- 
sonal appearance,  —  assumed  the  place  of  prime  minister  in  En- 
dractsland, somewhere  in  the  dark  and  prehistoric  ages  (say  as 
long  ago  as  1820),  because  there  didn't  happen  to  be  any  one 


236  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

else.  lie  was  one  of  the  best  secretaries  they  ever  had.  To  say- 
that  he  governed  the  colony  wisely  and  well  would  be  to  talk 
nonsense,  because  he  never  governed  it  at  all,  but  showed  his 
great  shrewdness  in  letting  it  develoj)  itself.  When  he  took  the 
reins,  the  landscape  was  still  lit  up  with  the  lurid  glare  of  the 
convict  hell,  from  the  dark  night  of  which  the  little  community 
had  barely  emerged.  When  he  dropped  them,  the  tide  of  free  emi- 
gration had  set  strongly  in  ;  and  he  himself  saw  that  the  dawn  had 
begun,  and  that  the  time  of  free  institutions  was  at  hand,  —  that, 
with  some  restrictions,  a  rather  liberal  suffrage  could  be  conceded 
to  the  new  non-convict  emigrants  who  had  poured  in  in  such  num- 
bers, and  to  such  of  the  convicts  as  had  so  far  practically  shown 
their  reformation  as  to  have  homesteads  of  180  acres.  Then  the 
old  Tory  took  himself  quietly  out  of  the  gap,  and  let  the  waters 
run  in.  He  had  no  objection  to  looking  on,  and  seeing  it  done, 
but  he  would  have  no  hand  in  it.  He^  at  all  events  was  no  Tory 
who  would  bid  for  power  by  bringing  in  a  measure  of  Reform. 

I  have  said  that  he  did  nothing ;  and  in  a  legislative  point  of 
view  he  had  done  nothing ;  and  yet  he  had  done  that  same  noth- 
ing in  such  a  wonderfully  shrewd  and  dexterous  way  that  in  the 
end  it  amounted  to  a  very  great  something.  No  less  than  five 
governors,  —  all  of  them  good  gentlemen,  but  each  and  all  of 
them  absolutely  ignorant  of  the  temper  of  the  colonists  and  the 
wants  of  the  colony,  —  had  been  sent  over  to  him ;  and  he,  by 
his  tact,  had  prevented  every  one  of  these  new  brooms  from 
sweeping  too  clean,  until  they  saw  where  to  sweep :  nay,  very 
often  succeeded  in  persuading  them  not  to  sweep  at  all,  but  to  let 
the  dust  be  blown  away  by  the  free  winds  of  heaven ;  and  this 
was  something.  Again,  his  own  wealth  had  grown  enormously, 
as  wealth  will  grow  in  Australia ;  his  sheep  and  cattle  multiplied 
under  his  superintendents  ;  and  so  his  interests  got  identified  with 
the  squatters.  Thus  he  had  the  power,  as  one  of  the  greatest  of 
them,  to  stand  between  them  and  the  doctrinaires  and  retired 
military  officers  who  were  in  those  times  sent  out  as  governors. 
He  bribed  shamefully  in  the  creation  of  places  for  the  sons  of 
turbulent  colonists;  but  he  always  kept  a  clear  balance-sheet; 
and,  as  for  as  his  own  hands,  they  w^ere  as  clean  as  snow  ;  he  was 
a  poorer  man  by  many  thousands  from  his  long  retention  of  office. 
A  man  of  higher  aspirations,  and  less  practical  shrewdness,  would 
not  have  done  the  work  half  so  well.  On  the  emergence  of  the 
colony  from  the  Sodom-and-Gomorrah  state  of  things  incidental 
on  a  convict  community,  into  such  a  noble  kingdom  as  Endracts- 
land  now  is,  there  is  a  certain  amount  of  dirty  work  which  some  one 
must  do.  James  Oxton  found  a  virgin  soil,  and  brought  over  a  free 
population.  His  work  was  as  clean  as  his  own  shirt-front,  and  he 
did  it  well.     Abiram  Pollifex  found  Bedlam  and  Newgate  boiling 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  237 

up  together,  and  had  to  watch  tlic  pot.     All  honor  to  him  that 
he  did  the  dirty  work  as  cleanly  as  he  did. 

Now  let  us  take  a  glance  at  the  handsome  brown-fliced,  gentle- 
manly looking  dandy,  with  a  carefully  trimmed  mustaclie,  who 
stands  beside  him.  lie  is  a  very  different  sort  of  person  ;  infi- 
nitely more  of  a  '"  representative  "  man  than  Chimpansee  Polli- 
fex,  from  the  simple  fact  that  he  is  by  no  means  an  uncommon 
article,  —  nay,  more,  is  one  of  the  commonest  articles  going,  — 
though  developed,  as  far  as  he  is  capable  of  development,  by  ex- 
ceptional circumstances ;  a  young  English  gentleman  of  good 
family,  Avitli  a  pul)Hc-school  education.  When  we  were  over  in 
England  for  the  Exhibition  of  18G2,  we  hired  a  carriage  and 
went  for  a  drive  in  the  park ;  and  there,  if  we  saw  one  Charles 
Morton,  we  saw  five  hundred.  Charles  Mortons  were  standing 
against  the  rails  in  long  rows  like  penguins,  —  each  one  most 
wonderfully  like  the  other ;  all  cast  nearly  in  the  same  mould  by 
Nature,  and,  if  not,  every  trifling  peculiarity  of  outward  look 
polished  away  by  inexorable  custom ;  all  dressed  alike,  with  their 
beards  and  mustaches  so  exactly  in  the  same  pattern  that  it  be- 
came ludicrous ;  men  whom  those  who  don't  know  them  sneer  at 
as  mere  flaneurs,  but  whose  suppressed  volcanic  energy  shows  it- 
self, to  those  who  care  to  observe,  in  that  singularly  insane  and 
dangerous  amusement,  fox-hunting,  —  all  men  with  whom  false- 
hood, cowardice  and  dishonor,  are  simply  nameless  impossibili- 
ties. We  know  them  better  than  we  did,  since  the  darkening 
hours  of  Sebastopol  and  Delhi,  and  it  was  only  their  own  faults 
that  such  as  I  did  not  know  them  better  before.  The  halo  of 
glory  which  was  thrown  round  the  heads  of  these  dandies,  by 
their  magnificent  valor  from  1854  to  1859,  has  done  the  body  of 
them  an  infinite  deal  of  harm.  We  can  trust  you,  and  will  follow 
you  in  war,  gentlemen  ;  but  in  peace,  cannot  you  manage  to  amal- 
gamate a  little  more  with  the  middle  and  lower  classes  ?  Are  the 
old  class-distinctions  to  go  on  forever,  and  leave  you  dandies,  the 
very  men  we  are  ready  to  take  by  the  hand  and  make  friends  of, 
in  a  minority,  as  regards  the  whole  nation,  of  99  to  1  ?  Can't 
we  see  a  little  more  of  you,  gentlemen,  just  at  this  time,  when 
there  is  no  great  political  difficulty  between  your  class  and  ours ; 
if  it  were  only  for  the  reason  tliat  no  one  out  of  Bedlam  supposes 
that  things  are  always  to  go  on  with  the  same  oily  smoothness 
as  they  are  doing  just  now.  I  think  we  understand  you,  gentle- 
men. I  wish  you  would  take  your  gloves  off  sometimes.  You 
have  been  more  courteous  to  us  since  the  Reform  Bill ;  but  cer- 
tain ill-conditioned  blackguards  among  us  say  that  it  is  only  the 
courtesy  which  is  engendered  of  fear,  and  but  ill  replaces  the  old 
condescending  honhommie  which  we  shared  with  your  pointers 
and  your  grooms.     Douglas  Jerrold  is  dead,  and  buried  at  Ken- 


238  THE  HILLYARS  AND   THE  BURTONS. 

sal  Green ;  and  there  liappens  to  be  no  one  alive  at  present  who 
is  able  or  cares  to  overstate  the  case  of  the  poor  against  the  rich 
with  quite  so  much  cleverness  as  he.  But  at  any  dark  hour  anoth- 
er man  of  similar  abilities  might  come  forth  and  make  terrible  mis- 
chief between  us  again.  You  can  be  earnest  and  hearty  enough 
about  anything  of  which  you  see  the  necessity.  Can  no  one  per- 
suade you  that  the  most  necessary  thing  just  now  is  an  amalga- 
mation of  classes  ?  You  could  never  get  together  a  Jeunesse  Doree 
without  our  assistance,  and  yet  you  treat  us  like  sans-culottes. 

Charles  Morton  was  at  Eton,  and,  while  there,  I  do  not  doubt 
displayed  the  qualities  hereditary  in  his  family,  —  truth,  honor, 
and  manliness.  Another  quality,  also  hereditary  in  his  family, 
he  got  but  scant  opportunity  of  displaying  at  Eton,  —  I  allude 
to  the  accomplishment  of  horsemanship ;  but,  when  he  got  to  St. 
Paul's  College,  Oxford,  he  made  up  for  lost  time.  From  this 
time  forward  he  seemed  to  forget  that  he  had  any  legs.  Boat- 
ing, cricket,  football,  evei'ything  was  neglected  utterly.  He  got 
on  horseback  and  stayed  there ;  and  henceforth  the  history  of 
the  man's  life  is  the  history  of  his  horses. 

Hunting  at  Oxford,  as  I  gather  from  the  highest  attainable 
authority,  costs  just  five  pounds  a  day  if  you  send  on ;  and  you 
can  hunt  live  days  a  week.  By  a  rough  calculation,  then, 
Charley  must  have  spent  near  five  hundred  pounds  in  the  hunt- 
ing season.  Besides  this,  he  liked  to  be  dressed  like  a  gentle- 
man. Besides  this,  again,  he  was  fond  of  seeing  his  friends,  and 
his  friends  were  rather  a  fast  and  noisy  lot,  as  Greatbatch's  bill 
clearly  proved.  "  Why,  Charley,  my  boy,"  said  his  father,  "  you 
seem  not  only  to  have  drunk  the  punch,  but  to  have  swallowed 
the  bowls  afterwards."  All  of  which  would  certainly  cost  four 
hundred  a  year  more.  Thus  we  have  brought  Charley  up  to 
nine  hundred  a  year,  without  mentioning  any  other  items  of  ex- 
travagance ;  whereas  his  allowance  was  sti'ictly  limited  to  350/. 
It  became  necessary  for  Master  Charley  to  leave  the  University. 

The  governor  had  just  had  in  a  few  little  bills  from  Charley's 
elder  brother  Jim,  in  the  140th  Dragoons ;  and  so  he  had  heard 
enough  of  the  army  just  then.  Law  and  physic  were  denied  to 
Charley  from  incapacity  and  idleness ;  and,  as  there  did  not  seem 
to  be  any  reasonable  hope  of  fitting  Charley,  with  his  habits,  for 
a  cure  of  souls  at  a  le-s  expense  than  some  five  thousand  pounds, 
it  was  considered  that,  taking  risks  into  consideration,  the  Church 
would  barely  pay  the  interest  on  the  money.  Therefore  there 
was  nothing  to  do  but  for  him  to  go  to  Australia. 

The  discovery  of  that  vast  continent  which  we  call  Australia 
is  an  important  era  in  the  history  of  the  world.  For  it  opened, 
in  the  first  place,  a  career  for  young  gentlemen  possessed  of 
every  virtue,  save  those  of  continence,  sobriety,  and  industry, 


THE  niLLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  239 

who  did  n*t  choose  to  walk  and  could  n't  afford  to  ride  ;  and, 
viewed  from  this  jmint,  its  discovery  ranks  next  in  irn[)ortance 
after  the  invention  of  s^oda-water,  —  a  sort  of  way  of  escaping 
cheaply  from  the  consequences  of  dehauchery  for  a  time.  But 
not  only  did  the  new  country  turn  out  to  be  the  most  wonder- 
fully scentless  cesspool  for  a  vast  quantity  of  nameless  rubbish, 
convicted  and  unconvicted ;  but  it  gave  an  opening  also  for  really 
honest,  u})right  fellows  like  Charles  Morton,  with  no  more  faults 
than  the  best  of  us,  excei)t  the  very  great  one  of  being  educated 
in  such  a  way  that  no  possible  career  is  open  to  them.  What  is 
a  fellow  to  do  if  his  father  chooses  to  play  his  game  of  whist 
with  fourteen  cards,  and  if  he  happens  to  be  the  fourteenth  ? 

The  very  qualities  which  made  Charles  a  most  expensive  and 
useless,  though  highly  ornamental,  piece  of  furniture  at  home, 
caused  him  to  be  a  most  useful  and  valuable  commercial  partner 
among  the  Bucolic,  almost  in  those  times  Nomadic,  aristocracy 
of  the  new  land.  The  same  spirit  that  took  Charley's  Norman 
ancestors  to  Jerusalem  took  Charley  to  the  Conamine.  Charles 
Morton  is  our  very  greatest  pioneer.  Neither  Gil  Maclean 
(brother  of  Colonel  Maclean,  — "  Red "  Maclean,  as  he  is  gen- 
erally called)  nor  Corny  Kelly,  the  most  popular  man  in  the 
colony  with  men  and  women,  can  compare  with  Charley  as  a 
pioneer.  The  two  Celts  are  as  brave  as  he,  but  they  both  fail 
in  the  point  of  temper.  Both  the  Highlander  and  the  Irish- 
man are  too  hot  with  the  blacks,  and  embroil  themselves  with 
them.  Charles  Morton  has  Charles  Sturt's  beautiful  patient 
temper.  Like  him,  he  can  walk  quietly  among  the  wretched 
savages,  and,  with  fifty  spears  aimed  quivering  at  his  heart,  and 
ready  to  fly  at  any  moment,  can  sit  quietly  down  and  begin  to 
laugh,  and  laugh  on  until  they  begin  to  laugh  too.  His  two 
noble  friends,  Maclean  and  Kelly,  can't  do  this.  Their  Celt 
blood  is  too  pure :  in  convivial  moments  they  chaff  Charley  with 
having  a  cross  of  Saxon  in  him ;  and,  if  they  knew  the  truth, 
they  would  hug  themselves  on  their  sagacity. 

The.^e  qualities  of  Charles  Morton  have  been  so  highly  appre- 
ciated that  he  is  at  this  moment  the  most  important  partner  in 
the  ''  Northwest  Company " ;  of  which  company,  consisting  of 
eight  wealthy  men,  James  Oxton  is  the  most  active  manager. 
Charles  Morton,  married,  as  we  know  from  former  passages  of 
this  book,  Lady  Ilillyar's  elder  sister,  and  so  is  James  Oxton's 
brother-in-law.  I  suppose  that,  as  this  thriftless  horse-riding 
dandy  stands  there  on  the  deck,  talking  to  Abiram  Pollifex,  he 
is  worth  from  fifty  to  sixty  thousand  pounds. 

There  sits  my  mother  on  the  deck,  too,  with  the  children  lying 
about  on  her  skirts,  or  propping  themselves  up  against  her,  as  if 
she  were  a  piece  of  furniture.     My  mother's  mind  has  returned 


2-iO  THE   UILLYARS   AND   THE  BURTONS. 

to  its  old  peaceful  lethargic  state  once  more.  On  the  occasion 
of  Fred's  casting  himself  down  the  skyliglit  on 'to  the  top  of  the 
second-ciiltin  dinner-t:il)le,  she  remarked  that  it  was  cheering  to 
know  that  all  the  houses  in  Australia  were  of  one  story,  and 
that  the  great  trouble  of  lier  life  would  soon  be  over.  And, 
taking  care  of  poor  Joe,  who  is  very  ailing  and  weak,  low  in 
mind  and  body,  and  needs  all  her  care  (and  will  need  more  ol' 
it  yet,  I  see,  with  a  falling  countenance),  there  sits  Emma  in  the 
sunshine  working,  and  Erne  has  just  come  and  leant  over  her, 
and  is  speaking  to  her.  I  wonder  what  he  is  saying.  Some 
commonplace  ;  for  she  only  smiles,  and  then  goes  wearily  on  with 
her  work. 

Such  were  the  new  acquaintances  with  whom  we  began  our 
uew  life  in  the  new  land.  How  long  we  have  gossiped  about 
them,  these  odd  people  and  their  histories !  so  long,  that  we  have 
been  four  months  on  the  restless  sea,  and  now  there  is  a  different 
scent  in  the  air.  Ha !  here  is  the  first  messenger  from  the  shore. 
A  fly,  —  a  blue-bottle  fly;  for  he  buzzes,  and  is  difficult  to  catch, 
and  bangs  his  idiotic  head  against  the  glass;  in  all  respects  a  blue- 
bottle, save,  oh  wonderful  fact !  that  he  is  brown.  Yes,  he  is  the 
first  instance  of  those  parallel  types,  reproduced  in  different  col- 
ors, and  with  trifling  differences,  —  so  small  as  to  barely  consti- 
tute a  fresh  species,  —  and  the  origin  of  which  is  such  a  deep 
deep  wonder  and  mystery  to  me  to  this  day.  Tell  me,  O  Dar- 
win, shall  we  know  on  this  side  of  the  grave  why  or  how  the 
Adiancum  Nigrum  and  Asplenium  capillis  Veneris,  have  repro- 
duced themselves,  or,  to  be  more  correct,  have  produced  ghosts 
and  fetches  of  themselves  at  the  antipodes  ?  I  have  seen  icebergs 
and  cyclones,  and  many  things  ;  but  I  never  was  so  lost  in  puzzled 
wonder  as  I  was  that  afternoon  when  I  found  Asplenium  viride 
growing  in  abundance  on  the  volcanic  boulders,  at  the  foot  of 
Mirugish.  It  was  Sunday  afternoon,  and  I  went  home  and 
thought  about  it,  and  I  am  thinking  about  it  still.* 

But  see ;  a  new  morn  arises,  and  flushes  a  crimson  and  purple 
lisfht,  in  loner  streamers,  aloft  to  the  zenith ;  and  we  are  sailing 
slowly  along  under  high-piled  forest  capes,  more  strange,  more 
majestic,  and  more  infinitely  melancholy  than  anything  w^e  have 
seen  in  our  strangest  dreams.  What  is  this  awful,  dim,  mysteri- 
ous land,  so  solemn  and  so  desolate  ?     This  is  Australia. 

*  Australian  Asplenium  Viride  cannot  be  distinguished;  no  more  can  Austra- 
lian Woodsia  Hyperborea. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  TUE  BURTONS.  241 


CHAPTER    XLV. 

GERTY  IN   SOCIETY. 

Those  wliom  one  has  asked  say  that  it  is  easy  enough  for  any 
cue  with  either  brains,  or  money,  or  manners,  to  see  a  great  deal 
of  society  in  London,  —  to  be,  in  fact,  in  the  room  with  the  very 
greatest  people  in  tlie  land,  to  be  presented  to  them,  and  speak  to 
them,  —  and  yet  not  to  be  in  society  at  all,  in  one  sense  of  the 
word.  If  this  is  so,  as  there  is  no  disputing,  we  should  say  that, 
if  ever  people  were  in  this  predicament,  those  two  people  were 
George  and  Gerty.  The  season  after  his  father's  death,  George 
went  to  London,  refurnished  the  house  in  Grosvenor  Square,  filled 
the  balconies  with  flowers,  had  new  carriages,  horses,  and  servants, 
made  every  preparation  for  spending  double  his  income,  and  then 
sat  down  to  wait  for  society  to  come  and  be  hos})itably  entertained 
with  the  best  of  everything  which  money  could  buy. 

Society  had  quite  enough  to  eat  and  drink  elsewhere.  It 
wanted  to  know  first  who  this  Sir  George  Hillyar  was,  —  wliich 
\vas  easily  found  out  from  the  Tory  whip,  and  from  Burke.  Next 
it  wanted  to  know  who  his  wife  was ;  and  it  discovered  that  she 
was  a  mulatto  woman  (alas,  poor  Gerty!),  or  something  of  that 
kind.  And,  lastly,  there  was  a  most  general  and  persistent  in- 
quiry whether  you  did  not  remember  some  very  queer  story  about 
this  Sir  George  Hillyar ;  and  the  answer  to  this  was,  among  the 
oldsters,  that  there  was  something  deused  queer,  and  that  no  one 
seemed  to  remember  the  fact. 

But,  of  course,  they  were  by  no  means  without  acquaintances. 
Old  Sir  George  had  been  too  highly  respected  for  that,  though  he 
had  utterly  withdrawn  himself  from  the  world.  So  by  degrees 
they  began  to  creep  into  society.  The  world  found  that  George 
was  a  gentleman,  with  a  scornful,  silent,  proud,  and  somewhat 
pirate-like  air  about  him,  which  was  decidedly  attractive.  As  for 
Gerty,  the  world  stood  and  gazed  on  her  with  speechless  wonder. 
After  Easter,  to  hear  this  wonderful  Lady  Hillyar  talk  was  one 
of  the  things  one  must  do.  Her  wonderful  incomprehensible  bab- 
ble was  so  utterly  puzzling  that  the  very  boldest  wits  were  afraid 
to  draw  her  out  for  the  amusement  of  any  company,  however  se- 
lect. No  one  knew  whether  she  was  in  earnest  or  not,  and  her 
slang  was  such  a  very  strange  one.  Besides,  what  she  would  say 
next  was  a  thing  which  no  one  dared  to  predict,  and  was  too  great 
a  risk  to  be  rashly  ventured  on,  even  by  the  very  boldest.  A  few 
11  P 


242  THE  HILLYARS  AND   THE   BURTONS. 

women  made  her  out  and  began  to  like  her ;  and  her  wonderfui 
beauty  could  not  have  failed  to  win  many  in  the  long-run ;  still, 
during  their  fir^t  and  last  season  in  London,  this  was  the  sort  of 
thing  which  used  to  be  heard  in  doorways,  and  on  the  landings 
of  stairs :  — 

"  That 's  a  devihsh  pretty  little  woman  in  white." 

''What,  Lady  Georgina  Rumbold?" 

"  Lord,  no.  The  little  woman  in  white  calico,  next  but  one  to 
her.  The  woman  who  is  all  over  Cape  jessamine.  Is  she  going 
to  dance  with  the  sweeps  ?     Who  is  she  ?  " 

"That?     That  is  Lady  Hillyar,"  says  No.  2. 

"  What,  the  little  woman  who  swears  ?  " 

"  She  don't  swear,"  says  No.  2.  "  I  wish  she  would ;  there 
would  be  some  chance  of  fiudinsj  out  what  she  was  talking  about." 

"  I  heard  that  she  was  a  mulatto  woman,"  says  No.  1,  "  and 
swore  Hke  a  trooper." 

"  jShe  is  not  a  mulatto  woman,"  says  No.  3.  "  She  is  a  French 
Creole  heiress  from  New  Orleans.  Her  husband  is  the  original 
of  Roland  Cashel,  in  Lever's  last  novel.  He  married  her  out 
there,  while  he  was  in  the  slave-trade ;  and  now  his  governor  's 
dead,  and  he  has  come  into  twenty  thousand  a  year." 

"  You  are  not  quite  right,  any  of  you,"  says  No.  4,  who  has 
just  come  up.  "  Li  the  first  place.  Sir  George  Hillyar's  income 
is  not,  to  my  certain  knowledge,  more  than  three  thousand,  —  the 
bulk  of  the  property  having  been  left  to  his  brother  Erne,  who  is 
living  at  Susa  with  Polly  Burton,  the  rope-dancer  from  Vauxhall. 
And,  in  the  next  place,  when  he  had  to  fly  the  country,  he  went 
to  Botany  Bay,  and  there  married  the  pretty  little  doll  of  a  thing 
sitting  there  at  this  moment,  the  daughter  of  a  convict,  who  had 
been  transported  for  — 

"  For  ratting  before  his  master,  I  suppose,  my  lord,"  said  Sir 
George  Hillyar,  just  looking  over  his  shoulder  at  the  unhappy 
Peelite,  and  then  passing  quietly  on  into  the  crowd. 

But,  in  spite  of  George's  almost  insolent  insouciance,  and  Ger- 
ty's  amazing  volubility  in  describing  her  equally  amazing  expe- 
riences, this  couple,  queer  though  they  were  pronounced,  were 
getting  on.  Kind  old  Lady  Ascot  fell  in  love  with  Gerty,  and 
asked  her  and  her  husband  to  Ranford.  The  Dowager  Lady 
Hainault,  seeing  that  her  old  enemy  had  taken  up  this  little  idiot, 
came  across  to  see  if  she  could  get  a  "  rise  "  out  of  Gerty.  Gerty 
rewarded  Lady  Ascot's  kindness  by  telling  old  Lady  Hainault, 
before  a  select  audience,  that  she  did  n't  care  a  hang  tor  a  hand's 
going  on  the  burst  for  a  spell,  provided  he  war  n't  saucy  in  his 
drink.  Her  hopeless  silliness,  now  that  she  was  removed  from 
the  influence  of  those  two  thoroughbred  ladies,  Mrs.  Oxton  and 
JNlrs.  Morton,  was  certainly  very  aggravating.  It  was  foolish  in 
Mrs.  Oxton  to  trust  her  out  of  her  sight. 


THE  IIILLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS.  243 

Things  went  on  tlius  for  no  less  tlian  two  years.  Gerty,  hav- 
ing no  idea  but  that  she  was  as  much  sought  after  as  any  one  else, 
and  that  she  was  so  on  account  of  her  social  ((ualities  actively, 
was  perfectly  contented  and  happy.  She  found  out,  of  course, 
that  certain  houses  were  more  dillicult  to  ijet  into  than  others ;  so, 
if  she  was  asked  to  a  party  at  Cheshire  House,  she  would  be  rav- 
ished, and  write  a  long  account  of  it  to  James  and  Aggy,  and 
would  read  this,  with  the  greatest  delight,  in  the  Pahncrston 
Sentinel,  six  months  after  it  was  sent  to  her  by  her  sister :  — 
"We  understand  that  our  late  reigning  beauty,  Lady  Ilillyar, 
who,  as  Miss  Gertrude  Neville,  astonished  our  colony  by  show- 
ing us  that  there  was  one  being  in  the  world  more  beautiful  than 
Mrs.  Buckley  of  Garoopna,  has  fluttered  the  dovecotes  of  the 
British  aristocracy  most  considerably,  by  her  debut  at  Cheshire 
House.  It  is  possible  that,  if  anything  can  bring  the  present 
Government  to  its  senses  about  their  hellish  design  of  continuing 
transportation  to  these  unhappy  islands,  that  purpose  may  be  ac- 
complished by  the  contemplation  of,  &c.,  &c.,  &c."  On  the  other 
hand,  if  she  was  not  asked,  she  would  console  herself  by  telling 
Baby  that  the  Duchess  was  a  nasty  odious  old  thing,  and  that  her 
wig  was  the  color  of  tussac  grass  in  January.  Sometimes  she 
would  have  a  yearning  for  her  old  Australian  home,  which  would 
hold  her  for  a  day  or  two,  —  during  which  time  she  would  be  very 
low  and  tearful,  and  would  keep  out  of  George's  way.  But,  after 
having  poured  all  her  sorrows  and  vain  regrets  into  Baby's  ear, 
she  would  become  cheerful  once  more,  and  the  fit  would  pass  ofT. 
What  she  would  have  done  without  this  precious  baby  to  talk  to 
I  dread  to  think.  Her  mind  would  have  gone,  I  suspect.  She 
is  not  the  first  woman  who  has  been  saved  from  madness  by  a 
baby. 

By  the  time  that  Baby,  just  now  called  Kittlekins,  short  for 
its  real  name,  George  (George, —  Georgy-porgy,  —  Porgy, — 
Poggy,  —  Pug,  —  Pussy  ;  Kitty  Kittles,  —  Kittlekins  ;  by  what 
process  of  derivation  his  later  and  more  permanent  name  of 
Bumbles  was  evolved,  I  confess  myself  at  a  loss  to  explain),  just 
when  Bumbles  Was  getting^  old  enou<ih  to  join  in  the  conversa- 
tion,  and  to  advise  and  assist  his  motlier  from  his  large  experi- 
ence, something  occurred  which  altered  their  mode  of  life  entirely, 
and  quite  shipwrecked  poor  little  Gerty's"  chance  of  happiness  for 
a  very  long  while. 

Mr.  Nalder  accepted  a  rather  important  diplomatic  appoint- 
ment in  the  American  Embassy  in  London.  As  the  revenues 
of  this  office,  witli  economy,  would  very  nearly  pay  for  Mrs. 
Nalder's  bonnets,*  Nalder  determined  to  devote  a  considerable 

*  I  wi«h  the  Americans  would  teach  us  the  secret  of  getting  the  ra^n  they  do 
for  the  money  they  give. 


244  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

proportion  of  his  hanflsome  private  income  to  what  he  called 
"haniiinir  out,"  and  took  a  house  in  Grosvenor  Place,  two  doors 
from  the  George  Hillyars.  They  were,  of  course,  received 
everywhere  in  virtue  of  their  diplomatic  rank,  and  people  began 
to  get  very  fond  of  them,  as  such  worthy  people  deserved. 
Meanwhile  their  intimacy  with  the  George  Hillyars  was  re- 
newed with  tenfold  warmth.  Mrs.  Nalder  thought,  from  their 
parting  two  years  or  more  ago,  that  all  was  forgotten  and  for- 
given between  them,  and  so  treated  them  both  with  affectionate 
empressement.  Gerty,  the  silly  little  thhig,  began  to  get  jealous 
of  Mrs.  Nalder  once  more,  and  to  watch  and  spy  about. 

Of  course,  she  would  not  believe  that  George  had  anything  to 
do  with  it.  He  behaved  nobly,  according  to  Gerty ;  it  was  that 
dreadful  and  most  dangerous  woman  who  would  not  leave  him 
alone.  And  so  she  made  up  the  old  old  jealous  woman's  story 
over  again,  in  a  way  which,  considering  it  had  not  the  slighest 
foundation  in  fact,  did  her  infinite  credit. 

In  the  midst  of  it  all,  when  her  suspicions  were  at  their  high- 
est, they  went  down  for  a  few  days  to  Stanlake,  and  the  Nal- 
ders  came  with  them.  Gerty,  to  throw  Mrs.  Nalder  off  her 
guard,  was  excessively  gay  and  cheerful ;  so  the  visit  went  off 
capitally.  But,  the  morning  that  the  Nalders  were  to  leave, 
George,  having  opened  one  of  his  letters  at  the  breakfast-table, 
asked  to  be  excused,  and  hurriedly  left  the  room.  He  just  re- 
appeared to  see  the  Nalders  into  their  carriage,  and  then  he 
looked  so  wan,  and  so  wild,  and  so  horribly  guilty,  that  Gerty 
saw  it  all.  That  woman  had  proposed  to  him  in  that  letter  to 
go  off  with  her ! 

Her  silliness  would  have  been  hardly  worth  dwelling  on,  if  it 
had  not  led  to  a  certain  course  of  action.  She  said  to  herself, 
"  I  will  save  him.  I  will  get  that  letter  from  him  and  read  it, 
and  then  tell  him  I  know  all,  and  throw  myself  on  his  breast." 
We  shall  see  how  she  succeeded. 

George  was  very  often  very  late  up  to  bed ;  to-night  he  was 
later  than  usual.  "  Could  he  be  go7ie  ?  "  thought  Gerty.  She 
hastily  rose,  and,  wrapping  herself  in  her  dressing-gown,  she 
went  swiftly  and  silently  down  stairs.  Though  her  beautiful 
little  ivory  feet  were  bare  upon  the  cold  polished  oak  staircase, 
she  heeded  not,  but,  passing  on  from  patch  to  patch  of  bright 
moonlight,  paused  breathless  at  the  library  door,  and  listened. 

The  little  woman  wanted  neither  for  cunning  of  a  sort,  nor  for 
courage  of  a  sort.  A  girl,  whose  first  lesson  was  that  her  life 
and  honor  were  in  her  own  keeping,  and  that  on  occasions  it 
might  become  necessary  for  her  to  shoot  a  man  down  with  no 
more  hesitation  than  would  be  felt  in  killing  a  beetle,  might  be 
supposed  to  have  imbibed  some  small  portion  of  these  faculties. 
She  therefore  calculated  her  chances  quite  coolly. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  245 

Georjxe  was  tliere,  talkinir  to  liimself.  If  liis  back  v>cvc  to- 
wards  her,  the  noise  he  made  iniglit  enable  her  to  open  tlie  door 
without  being  heard.  If  he  saw  her,  why  then  slie  had  merely 
come  to  coax  him  up  stairs.  She  opened  the  door  stealthily  and 
passed  in,  quite  unnoticed.  George  was  sitting  before  the  escri- 
toire, —  the  same  one  in  which  his  father's  will  had  been  kept. 
He  had  a  revolver  beside  him,  and  was  reading  a  letter, — a 
very  long  letter  of  many  sheets,  —  the  letter  of  that  morning,  — 
and  every  now  and  then  uttering  a  fierce  oath  or  exclamation. 

She  slid  behind  a  curtain  and  watched.  She  wanted  to  know 
where  he  would  put  the  letter.  She  was  undetermined  how  to 
act,  and  was  beginning  to  think  whether  it  would  not  be  better 
to  open  the  door  suddenly  and  come  laughing  in,  as  if  by  acci- 
dent, when,  as  she  stood  barefooted  and  breathless  behind  her  cur- 
tain watching  her  husband  reading  the  letter  which  she  believed 
to  be  from  Mrs.  Xalder,  her  cunning  little  eye  made  a  discovery. 
There  was  one  drawer  of  the  secretary  open,  —  one  of  the  secret 
drawers,  which  she  had  seen  open  frequently,  and  knew  the  trick 
of  perfectly,  as  did  probably  every  one  who  had  once  looked  at 
it  for  an  instant.  It  seemed  so  evident  to  her  that  George  had 
taken  Mrs.  Nalder's  letter  from  that  drawer,  and  so  certain  that  he 
would  put  it  back  there  again,  that  she  was  quite  satisfied  to  wait 
no  longer,  and  so  stole  silently  and  successfully  out  of  the  room 
once  more  ;  and,  when  George  came  up  to  bed  soon  after,  she 
api>eared  to  awake  with  a  sweet  smile.  "  Good  heavens !  "  she 
said  to  herself,  "  he  looks  like  death." 

And  he  looked  like  death  in  the  morning.  He  was  so  abso- 
lutely silent  that  he  seemed  to  be  possessed  of  a  dumb  devil,  and 
he  looked  utterly  scared  and  terrified.  She  heard  him  give  or- 
ders to  the  pad  groom,  which  showed  that  he  was  going  out,  but 
would  be  home  to  lunch.  She  asked  him  where  he  was  going, 
and  he  simply  answered,  "  To  Croydon." 

His  horse's  feet  were  barely  silent  in  the  yard,  when  she  was 
at  the  old  secretary.  The  drawer  was  opened,  and  the  letter  was 
in  her  hand  before  George  was  out  of  the  park.  At  the  first 
glance  at  it,  she  saw  that  it  was  not  from  Mrs.  Nalder,  or  from 
any  woman,  but  was  written  in  a  man's  hand.  When  she  saw 
this,  her  conscience  pricked  her  for  one  moment.  It  was  not  a 
secret  in  her  department.  She  had  a  right  to  open  a  woman's 
letter  to  her  husband,  but  she  had  no  right  here.  Curiosity  pre- 
vailed, and  she  sat  down  and  read  the  letter  we  give  in  the  next 
chapter.  It  is  hard  to  say  how  much  she  understood  of  it,  but 
quite  enough  to  make  her  hastily  rejjlace  it  in  the  drawer ;  to 
stand  for  an  instant  stupefied  with  horror,  and  then  to  rush  wildly 
up  stairs,  seize  baby  to  her  bosom,  and  turn  round,  her  eyes 
gleaming  with  the  ferocity  of  sheer  terror,  at  bay  against  tho 
enemy. 


216  THE  HILLY ARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 


CHAPTER    XLVI. 

THE  LETTER,  WHICH  WAS  NOT   FROM  MRS.  NALDER. 

*'  Sir,  —  I  am  about  to  write  to  you  the  longest  letter  which  I 
have  ever  written  in  my  life,  and,  I  make  bold  to  say,  one  of  the 
strangest  letters  ever  written  by  one  man  to  another. 

"  Sir  George,  you  will  find  me,  in  this  letter,  assuming  an  in- 
dignant and  injured  tone ;  and  at  first  you  will  laugh  at  such  an 
idea,  —  at  the  idea  of  a  man  so  deeply  steeped  in  crime  as  I  am 
having  any  right  to  feel  injury  or  injustice ;  but  you  will  not 
laugh  at  the  end,  Sir  George.  If  your  better  feelings  don't  pre- 
vent you  doing  that,  what  I  have  to  tell  you  will  put  you  into  no 
laughing  mood. 

'^  Who  ruined  me,  sir  ?  Who  brought  me,  a  silly  and  impres- 
sible young  man,  into  that  hell  of  infamy,  which  was  called  a 
private  tutor's  ?  Was  I  ever  a  greater  scoundrel  than  Mottes- 
font,  who  forged  his  own  father's  name ;  was  I  ever  so  great  a 
blackg'uard  as  Parkins?  No.  I  should  have  been  cobbed  in 
the  hulks  if  I  had  been.  Why,  the  only  honest  man  in  that 
miserable  house  when  we  first  went  there  (save  our  two  selves) 
was  the  poor  old  idiot  of  a  tutor,  who  knew  no  more  of  the  ante- 
cedents of  his  two  pupils  than  your  father  did. 

"  And  then  did  not  I  see  you,  the  handsome  merry  young  gen- 
tleman whom  I  followed  for  good-will  and  admiration,  laughing  at 
them,  seeming  to  admire  them,  and  thinking  them  fast  fellows, 
and  teaching  me  to  do  the  same  ?  Was  not  I  made  minister  of 
your  vice  ?  And,  lastly,  Sir  George  Hillyar,  —  I  am  going  to 
speak  out,  —  when  I  saw  you,  the  young  gentleman  I  admired 
and  looked  up  to,  when  I  saw  you,  —  I  can  say  it  to-day  after 
what  I  know  now,  —  Forge,  can  you  be  the  man  to  cast  a  rob- 
bery in  my  teeth  ?     Am  I  worse  than  you  ?  " 

(Sir  George  had  lit  a  cigar  when  he  had  read  so  far.  "  Is 
that  the  little  game  .'' "  he  said.  "  The  man's  brain  is  softening. 
Why,  old  Morton,  the  keeper,  knows  all  about  that.  But  there 
is  a  lot  more  in  reserve ;  three  or  four  pages.  Now  I  do  wonder 
how  he  is  going  to  try  and  raise  the  wind  out  of  me.  He  is  a 
fool  for  mentioning  that  old  business,  because  it  will  only  make 
me  angry,  and  he  can't  appear  without  being  packed  off  to  the 
colony  in  irons  for  life.  Oh,  here  is  more  sentimentality,  hey  ?  ") 
"  Knowing  all  I  have  known,  Sir  George,  have  I  ever   at- 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  247 

tempted  to  trade  on  it  ?  Never.  Have  n't  T,  rogne,  wretch,  and 
dog,  as  I  am,  witli  hell  begun  in  this  world  for  me,  —  luiven't  I 
been  faitiiful  and  true  to  you  ?  What  did  I  ever  have  from  you 
before  that  thirty  pounds  you  gave  me  in  Palmerston  hist  year  ? 
You  surely  owed  me  as  much  as  that ;  you  surely  owed  Julia's 
husband  as  much  as  that.  You  received  me  then  like  a  villain 
and  a  thief.  I  came  to  you  humbly,  and  was  glad  to  see  your 
face  again,  for  your  face  was  dear  to  me  till  last  night,  Sir 
George.  And  you  broke  out  on  me,  and  bullied  me,  assuming 
that  I  was  going  to  swindle  you. 

"  If  it  had  n't  been  for  the  reception  you  gave  mc  then  I  would 
never  have  deceived  you,  and  come  to  England.  I  would  have 
stopped  at  Perth  ;  for  the  tale  I  told  you  was  true ;  but  the  wind 
was  fair,  and  I  was  angry  with  you,  and  old  England  was  before 
me,  and  so  I  did  not  go  on  shore.  What  have  I  done  which 
warrants  you  in  doing  what  you  have  done  to  me  ?  Sir  George 
Hillyar,  sir,  a  master  scoundrel  like  me  knows  as  much  or  more 
than  a  leading  detective.  You  know  that.  Last  night.  Sir 
George,  it  came  to  my  knowledge  that  you  had  offered  two  hun- 
dred guineas  for  my  apprehension." 

("  Confound  the  fellow,  I  wonder  how  he  found  that  out,"  said 
Sir  George.  "  How  very  singular  it  is  his  trying  to  take  me  in 
with  these  protestations  of  affection.  I  thought  him  shrewder. 
I  must  have  him  though.  I  am  sorry  to  a  certain  extent  for 
the  poor  devil,  but  he  must  stand  in  the  dock.  All  that  he 
chooses  to  say  about  the  past  there  will  go  for  nothing ;  he  will 
be  only  rebuked  by  the  court.  But  if  he  goes  at  large  he  may 
take  to  anonymous  letter-writing,  or  something  of  that  kind. 
And  he  really  does  know  too  much.  That 's  what  Morton,  the 
keeper,  so  sensibly  said,  when  he  advised  me  to  do  it.  Yes,  let 
him  say  what  he  has  got  to  say  in  the  dock,  in  the  character  of 
a  returned  convict.") 

"  That  is  to  say,  Sir  George,  in  sheer  unthinking  cowardice, 
or  else  because  you  wished  to  stamp  all  I  had  to  say  as  the  in- 
sane charges  of  a  desperate  man,  you  deliberately  condemned 
me,  who  had  never  harmed  you,  to  a  fate  infinitely  more  horrible 
than  death,  —  to  the  iron  gang  for  life  ;  calculating,  as  I  have 
very  little  doubt,  —  for  you  as  a  police  inspector  know  the  con- 
vict world  somewhat; — on  my  suicide.  Now  Sir  George,  who 
is  the  greatest  villain  of  us  two  ?  Now,  have  I  not  got  a  case 
againsL  you  ?  " 

(Sir  George's  face  darkened,  and  he  looked  uneasy.  "  This 
fellow  is  getting  dangerous.     But  I  shall  have  him  to-night  ?  ") 

"Now,  Sir  George,  please  attend  to  me,  and  I  will  toll  you  a 
story,  —  a  story  which  will  interest  you  very  deeply.  I  wish 
first  of  all,  my  dear  sir,  —  in  order  to  quicken  your  curiosity,  — 


248  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

to  allude  to  the  set  of  sapphires  valued  at  some  eiglit  hundred 
pounds,  and  the  set  of  cameos  valued  at  nearly  two  thousand 
pounds,  which,  to  Mr.  Compton's  great  surprise,  were  not  found 
among  your  late  father's  eifects  at  his  most  lamented  demise. 
Do  you  remember  discovering,  while  Mr.  Compton  and  you  were 
arranging  papers,  in  the  very  front  of  the  old  black  secretary, 
a  bundle  of  pink  and  highly-scented  love-letters,  written  in 
an  elegant  lady's  hand,  addressed  to  your  father,  and  signed 
*  Mary  ? '  The  one,  unless  I  forget,  which  contained  the  tress 
of  auburn  hair,  was  the  one  in  which  Mary  thanked  her  dearest 
old  Georgy  Poggy  for  the  heautifal,  beautiful  set  of  blue  stones ; 
and  the  one  in  which  was  the  sprig  of  Cape  jessamine  was  full 
of  warm  expressions  of  gratitude  for  the  noble,  the  princely 
present  of  the  cameos.  I  admii-e  the  respect  which  you  and 
Mr.  Compton  showed  for  the  memory  of  your  late  father,  in 
saying  nothing  about  the  love-letters,  and  in  letting  the  sapphires 
and  cameos  go  quietly  to  the  devil.  A  scandalous  liaison  in  a 
man  of  your  late  father's  age  is  best  kept  quiet.  It  is  not  re- 
spectable." 

("  How  the  dense  did  he  find  this  out  ?  "  said  George.) 

"  Now,  my  dear  sir,  I  beg  to  inform  you  that  your  dear  father 
was  utterly  innocent  of  this  '  affair.'  He  always  was  a  very  clean 
liver,  was  Sir  George.  I  '11  speak  up  for  him,  because  he  seems 
bitterly  to  have  felt  that  he  had  n't  done  his  duty  by  me,  and 
was  in  some  sort  answerable  for  my  misdemeanors,  in  sending 
me  to  that  den  of  iniquity  in  your  company.  But  about  these 
love-letters ;  they  were  written,  under  my  direction,  by  a  young 
female  of  good  education,  but  who,  unhappily,  knows  pretty 
near  as  much  of  the  inside  of  Newgate  as  she  does  of  the  out- 
side ;  they  were  put  in  that  escritoire  by  my  own  hand,  ready 
for  you  to  find  tliem.  And,  as  for  the  sapphires  and  cameos, 
why  I  stole  them,  sold  them,  have  got  the  money,  and  am  going 
into  business  with  it  in  Palmerston." 

('•'  The  dense  you  are,"  said  George.  "  Is  he  mad  ?  or  is  there 
something  coming?  I  must  have  some  brandy.  I  am  fright- 
ened." He  drank  half  a  tumbler  of  brandy,  and  then  went  on 
with  the  letter.) 

"  If  you  ask  me  how,  I  will  tell  you.  Lay  down  this  letter 
a  moment,  take  a  table-knife,  go  outside  of  the  pantry  window 
(a  latticed  one,  as  you  will  remember),  and  raise  the  latch  with 
the  knife ;  that  will  explain  a  great  deal  to  you.     I  resume. 

"  I  came  on  to  Eugland,  as  you  know,  and  we  had  to  beat  up 
for  Rio,  leaky.  From  thence  1  wrote  by  tlie  Tay  steamer  to  my 
son  Reuben,  telling  him  to  look  out  for  me.  That  noble  lad, 
sir,  was  as  true  as  steel.  He  was  living  at  the  top  of  my  cousin's 
house  at  Chelsea,  and  he  took  me  in  at  every  risk,  and  was  most 


THE  IIILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  249 

faithful  and  dutiful.  Use  that  boy  well,  Sir  George,  and  it  shall 
be  well  with  you. 

"  You  know  what  I  got  involved  in  there.  I  began  to  see 
that  there  were  some  in  that  business  far  too  clumsy  for  me^  and 
I  tried  to  get  out  of  it.  I  thought  of  Stanlake.  I  had  robbed 
the  house  once,  and  I  meant  to  do  it  again.  I  knew  what  a 
terrible  lot  of  property  there  was  loose  in  that  house.  I  began 
getting  into  that  house  through  the  pantry  window;  I  got  in, 
iirst  and  last,  eight  times. 

"I  knew  enough  to  know  that  the  black  escritoire  was  my 
mark,  and  I  worked  at  that.  I  found  out  your  father's  trick 
of  sitting  up,  and  dozing  off  uneasily,  and  it  was  the  cause  of 
much  danger  to  me.  I  have  been  in  the  room  with  him  several 
times  when  he  was  snoring;  and  dozinsf  in  his  chair,  before  I 
could  get  a  chance  at  the  lock,  and  then  I  failed  the  first  time. 
The  next  night  I  came  with  other  skeleton  keys  and  got  it  open. 
That  night  I  got  the  sapphires  and  the  cameos,  which  I  have 
seen  your  mother  wear  often.  Sir  George ;  and  the  next  morn- 
ing, Reuben  being  safe  at  Stanlake,  I  wrote  to  the  police,  and 
laid  them  on  to  the  crib  at  Church  Place,  Chelsea." 

C'  Are  there  two  devils,"  said  George,  aghast,  "  or  is  this  the 
true  and  only  one.") 

"  Sir,  you  may  have  thought  that  near  three  thousand  pounds 
was  enough  to  content  me,  but  it  was  not.  I  wanted  the  dia- 
monds; the  whole  affair  (I  will  not  use  thieves'  Latin  to  you, 
sir)  was  so  safe,  and  there  was  such  an  absolute  certainty  of 
impunity  about  it,  that  I  felt  a  kind  of  triumph,  not  unmixed 
with  amusement.  I  came  back  after  the  diamonds ;  and  the 
night  I  came  back  after  the  diamonds  was  the  very  night  your 
poor  dear  pa  died." 

(George  was  so  sick  and  faint  now  that  the  brandy  had  but 
little  effect  on  him,  but  after  a  time  he  went  on.) 

"  That  night,  sir,  I  got  in  as  usual  with  my  boots  in  my  pocket. 
Old  Simpson  was  fast  asleep  in  a  chair  in  the  little  drawing- 
room  as  usual.  I  waited  a  long  while  outside  the  library  door, 
longer  than  usual,  until  I  heard  Sir  George  snore ;  and  then,  at 
the  very  first  sound  of  it,  I  passed  quickly  and  safely  in. 

"  He  was  sleeping  very  uneasily  that  night,  sometimes  snoring, 
and  sometimes  talking.  I  heard  him  mention  Mr.  Erne's  name 
very  often,  and  once  or  twice  Mr.  Erne's  mother's  name.  Then 
he  mentioned  your  name,  sir,  and  he  said  more  than  once,  '  Poor 
George  !  Poor  dear  George  ! '  to  my  great  surprise,  as  you  may 
su|>pose. 

'•  Then  I  looked  at  the  secretaiy,  and  it  w\as  oi)en ;  and  on  the 
desk  of  it  was  lying  a  deed.  I  stepped  up,  and  saw  it  was  his 
will.  I  opened  it,  and  read  it,  for  it  was  very  short.  Eight 
11* 


250  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

thousand  a  year  to  Mr.  Erne,  and  Stanlake  to  you.  I  had  just 
heard  him  say,  '  Poor  dear  George ! '  in  his  sleep ;  and  I  thought 
of  you  sir,  —  before  God  I  did,  unkind  as  you  liad  been  to  me. 
I  said,  If  I  put  this  in  my  pocket,  he  must  make  a  new  one, 
and  then  it  may  be  better  for  '  Poor  dear  George.'  And,  as  T 
thought  that,  I  heard  a  noise  and  looked  up,  and  saw  tliat  he 
had  silently  awaked,  had  caught  up  a  sword  from  the  rack  o\er 
the  fire-place,  and  was  close  on  me. 

"  He  was  very  unsteady,  and  looked  very  ghastly,  but  he 
recognized  me  in  an  instant,  and  called  me  by  my  name.  1 
easily  eluded  him,  and  made  swiftly  for  the  door,  —  he  catching 
up  the  candle  and  following  me  down  the  passage,  calling  out  in 
the  most  awful  voice  for  Reuben  to  come  and  help  him. 

"  I  made  for  the  kitchen,  and  he  after  me,  quicker  than  I 
reckoned  on.  The  kitchen  was  so  dark  that  I  got  confused 
among  the  furniture,  and  began  to  get  frightened,  and  think  that 
I  had  gone  too  far  in  my  rashness.  Before  I  could  clear  out  of 
it,  he  came  reeling  in,  and  saw  me  again.  He  threw  his  sword 
at  me,  and  fell  heavily  down,  putting  out  the  light. 

"  I  was  in  the  pantry,  and  at  the  window  in  one  moment.  As 
I  got  it  open,  I  knocked  down  some  glasses,  and  at  the  same 
moment  heard  Simpson  in  the  kitchen  shouting  for  help. 

"  I  w^as  deeply  grieved  on  hearing  next  day  that  your  poor  pa 
was  found  dead.  It  is  very  dreadful  to  be  took  off  like  that  in  a 
moment  of  anger ;  called  to  your  last  account  suddenly  in  an  un- 
charitable frame  of  mind,  without  one  moment  given  for  repent- 
ance or  prayer.  I  thank  Heaven  that  I  can  lay  my  hand  on  my 
heart  at  this  moment,  and  say  that  I  am  in  peace  and  charity 
with  all  men,  and  can  await  my  summons  hence  calmly,  and 
without  anxiety.  My  spiritual  affairs  are  in  perfect  order.  Sir 
George.  Oh,  that  you  too  would  take  warning  before  it  is  too 
late! 

"  And  now,  with  regard  to  my  worldly  affairs.  Sir  George.  I 
am  sorry  to  trouble  you,  but  I  must  have  those  traps  took  off 
my  trail  immediate,  if  you  please.  You  will,  of  course,  lose  no 
time  about  that^  seeing  that,  should  anything  happen  to  me,  of 
course  Mr.  Erne  would  immediately  come  into  four-fifths  of  your 
income,  with  a  claim  for  a  year's  rents.  In  short,  Sir  George,  I 
have  it  in  my  power  to  ruin  you  utterly  and  irretrievably ;  and, 
when  it  came  to  my  knowledge  last  night  that  you,  having  heard 
of  my  return  from  France,  had  set  the  traps  upon  me,  I  got  in 
such  a  fury  that  I  teas  haJf-way  to  Compton's  office  with  it  before 
I  could  think  what  I  was  about.  If  it  had  been  half-a-mile 
nearer,  you  would  have  been  lost.  You  know  what  my  temper 
is  at  times,  and  you  must  be  very  careful. 

"  This  is  all  I  have  to  trouble  you  with  at  present.     I  am  not 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  2-31 

in  waut  of  any  pecuniary  assistance.  My  affairs  are,  on  the 
whole,  prosperous.  I  shall,  by  retainin^jj  possession  of  your 
father's  will,  render  our  interests  identical.  Meanwhile,  sir,  I 
thank  you  for  your  kindness  to  my  son  Reuben.  You  will  never 
have  a  hard  bargain  to  drive  with  me  as  long  as  you  are  kind  to 
him." 


CHAPTER    XLVII 

SIR   GEORGE  HILLYAR   STARTS  ON  HIS  AD\T:NTURE. 

One  scarcely  likes  to  look  too  closely  into  the  volcano  of  ter- 
ror and  fury  which  began  to  heave  and  gleam  in  Sir  Georore 
Hillyar's  mind  when  he  read  this.  The  biscuit-like  walls  of  old 
craters  stand  up  for  centuries,  heaving  beautiful,  scornful  pin- 
nacles aloft  into  the  blue  of  heaven  ;  and  the  grass  grows  on  the 
old  flame-eaten,  vitrified  rocks,  in  the  holes  of  whicli  the  native 
cats  and  copper  lizards  live  and  squabble,  and  say  things  behind 
one  another's  backs  ;  and  people  have  pic-nics  there ;  and  lost 
sheep  feed  there,  and  waken  strange  startling  echoes  in  the 
dead  silence  of  the  summer  noon  by  their  solitary  bleat ;  and 
the  eagle  comes  sometimes  and  throws  his  swift  passing  shadow 
across  the  short  grass ;  and  all  goes  on  peacefully,  until  folks 
notice  that  a  white,  round-topped  cloud  hangs  high  aloft  over  the 
hill,  and  stays  there ;  and  then  some  one  says  that  the  cloud  is 
red  at  night  on  the  lower  edge  ;  and  then  some  fine  morning 
down  slides  the  lip  of  the  old  crater,  crash,  in  unutterable  ruin, 
and  away  comes  the  great  lava  stream  hissing  through  the  vine- 
yards, and  hell  is  broken  loose  once  more. 

So  now  the  bank  of  loose  scorice,  — now,  alas !  a  thing  of  the 
past,  —  which  had  been  built  up  by  time,  by  want  of  temptation, 
by  his  love  of  his  wife,  by  the  company  of  such  people  as  the 
Oxtons,  by  desire  for  the  applause  of  society,  round  tiie  seetliing 
fire  which  existed  in  George  liillyar,  and  which  some  say  —  and 
who  is  he  bold  enough  to  deny  it?  —  is  in  all  of  us,  had  broken 
down  utterly. 

Suddenly,  when  at  the  height  of  prosperity,  a  prosperous  gen- 
tleman, just  winning  his  way  into  thorough  recognition  from  the 
world,  after  all  he  had  gone  through ;  at  this  very  moment  h<j 
found  his  fortune  and  reputation  in  the  hands  of  a  thrice-con- 
victed, self-accused,  hypocritical  villain.     He  knew  that  he  was 


252  THE  HILLY ARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

not  safe  for  a  moment ;  and  he  knew  that,  should  this  man  use 
his  power,  he  had  only  one  remedy  —  suicide. 

For,  in  the  first  place,  he  had  thoroughly  persuaded  himself 
of  the  utter  lowuess  of  Erne's  character,  —  that  he  had  no 
mercy  to  expect  from  him  ;  and,  should  his  father's  will  be  pro- 
duced, he  would  be  awfully  in  Erne's  debt  even  now.  And 
next,  he  would  sooner,  far  sooner,  after  what  had  passed,  put  a 
pistol  to  his  head  and  draw  the  trigger  than  ask  for  it.  Sir 
George  Hillyar  was  a  great  scoundrel,  but  physically  he  was  not 
a  coward.  Barker's  Gap  showed  that  to  the  astonished  Secre- 
tary Oxton.  He  would  still  prefer  death  to  what  he  chose  to 
consider  disgrace. 

He  had  been  using  the  wealth  which  he  considered  his  very 
freely,  with  a  view  to  reinstate  himself  into  society,  and  had  to  a 
certain  extent  succeeded.  Tasteful  extravagance,  which  he  had 
taken  to  as  a  means  to  that  end,  had  now  become  a«necessity  to 
him ;  and,  moreover,  here,  as  in  Australia,  he  had  made  many 
enemies  by  his  manner.  He  could  not  and  would  not  endure 
disgrace  and  ruin  before  these  men.  He  placed  the  alternative 
of  suicide  most  plainly  before  him. 

The  alternative !  Then  there  was  another  ?  Yes,  but  one 
best  not  spoken  about.  A  bird  of  the  air  would  carry  some 
matters. 

At  first  he  broke  into  most  ungovernable,  frantic  rage,  and 
broke  his  hand  against  the  mantel-piece ;  but  by  degrees  his 
passion  grew  more  still  and  more  intense,  and  his  resolution, 
whatever  it  was,  became  fixed. 

George  Hillyar  had  not  one  friend  in  the  world,  unless  you 
could  call  the  old  gamekeeper  one.  His  love  for  his  silly  wife 
had  long  been  on  the  wane,  and  was  now  utterly  swept  away  and 
lost  in  this  terrible  deluge.  Nay,  Gerty  had  reason  enough  for 
jealousy,  had  she  looked  in  the  right  direction.  He  would  have 
been  utterly  alone,  on  a  terrible  Stylites  column  of  selfishness, 
built  up,  stone  by  stone,  through  a  misspent  life,  had  it  not  been 
for  one  single  person.  His  heart  was  closed  entirely  towards 
every  member  of  his  species  save  one,  —  his  illegitimate  son 
Reuben. 

And  so  strangely  had  matters  arranged  themselves,  that  this 
affection  was  shared  by  his  bitterest  enemy,  the  partner  of  his 
crimes.  The  one  link  between  these  two  men,  which  did  not 
seem  of  the  devil's  forging,  was  their  kindly  feeling  towards  this 
young  man  Reuben,  whom  each  believed  to  be  his  son.  And 
George's  first  resolution  was  to  claim  paternity  in  Reuben  him- 
self, lest  Reuben,  believing  Samuel  Burton  to  be  his  father, 
should  interfere  in  any  way  with  his  plans. 

For  George  was  right,  as  I  dare  say  you  have  already  guessed. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  253 

Reuben  iras  George's  son.  The  poor  woman,  Samuel's  wife, 
utterly  deserted  and  alone  in  the  world,  lost  her  youngest 
child,  and  was  left  with  Reuben  only.  And,  when  she  saw 
Morton  the  keeper,  she  suspected  that  the  family  wanted  to 
get  liim  from  her  ;  and  so  she  lied  about  it,  and  said  it  was 
tlie  eldest  who  was  dead.  For  this  child  was  all  she  had  left 
in  the  world ;  name,  health,  character,  all  W('re  gone.  Noth- 
ing was  left  but  this  pretty  one  ;  and,  if  she  ])arted  from  that, 
there  was  nothing  left  but  the  river.  She  easily  put  simple  old 
Morton  off  his  quest,  and  was  left  in  peace.  A  selfish  woman, 
—  to  stand  wilfully  between  her  child  and  worldly  advance- 
ment !  And  yet  her  conduct  seems  to  shine  out  of  the  dread- 
ful darkness  of  the  whole  transaction,  on  which  I  liave  so 
slightly  touched,  as  a  gleam  from  a  higher  and  purer  region. 

Old  Sir  George  Hillyar  had  seen  the  likeness  in  an  instant, 
and  had  determined  to  hiow  nothing  whatever,  but  to  do  what  he 
considered  his  duty  by  Reuben,  —  which  seems  fully  to  account 
for  his  conduct  to  Reuben,  and  to  George  also ;  for  when  the  kind 
old  man  (he  was  in  his  way  very  kind)  saw,  or  thought  he  saw, 
that  George  had  recognized  his  unfortunate  offspring,  and  that 
his  heart  was  moved  towards  him,  then  the  old  man's  heart  was 
softened,  towards  both  father  and  son.  He  probably  felt  the  same 
repugnance  as  I  do  to  handle  or  examine  a  very  ugly  business. 

Reuben,  as  soon  as  he  had  accepted  Sir  George  Hillyar's  pro- 
tection, had  been  made  under-keeper  at  Stanlake,  and  had  been 
put  under  old  Morton  to  learn  his  duties.  Old  Morton  saw  noth- 
ing strange  in  the  attention  that  Sir  George  paid  to  this  young 
man.  Reuben  was  the  favorite  of  the  day,  as  he  had  been  once. 
He  admired  Reuben,  and  rather  flattered  him.  The  old  dog,  if 
he  is  of  a  good  breed,  is  quite  contented  with  half  the  hearth-rug 
in  his  old  age ;  particularly  when  the  young  dog  is  so  affection- 
ately deferential  as  was  the  young  dog  Reuben.  Reuben  would 
sometimes  call  him  "old  cock,"  —  which  was  low;  but  then  he 
submitted  so-  gently  to  the  old  man's  courtly  reproofs ;  and,  be- 
sides, his  reckless  and  desperate  gallantry  in  the  matter  of  poach- 
ers more  than  outbalanced  any  slight  lowness  and  slanginess  of 
language  of  which  iMorton  might  have  to  complain.  Morton  took 
to  Reuben,  and  Reuben  took  most  heartily  to  his  trade. 

At  this  time  also  Reuben  bejjan  to  exhibit  that  fondness  for 
decorating  his  person  which  afterwards  caused  him  to  develope 
into  —  bufwe  anticipate.  So  that  the  Reuben  who  stood  before 
Sir  George  Hillyar  in  the  library  an  hour  or  two  after  the  arrival 
of  that  dreadful  letter,  was,  so  to  speak,  the  very  pink,  tulip,  or 
abstract  ideal  of  all  dandy  game-keepers,  without  being  a  bit  over- 
dressed or  theatrical.  A  clean,  dapper,  good-humored,  innocent 
young  fellow,  with  a  pleasant  open  face  which  won  your  good 


254  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

will  at  once.  lie  was  strangely  in  contrast  with  his  dark-browed 
father,  and  seemed  an  odd  figure  to  find  in  that  sink  of  guilt  into 
which  he  was  getting  drawn. 

"  Reuben,"  said  Sir  George,  quietly,  "  come  here." 

Reuben  came  up,  and  Sir  George  took  his  hand.  "  Look  at 
me,"  he  said.     "  Do  I  look  as  if  I  was  mad  ?  " 

He  certainly  did  not.  Those  steady,  resolute  eyes  shone  out 
of  no  madman's  head.  Reuben,  wondering,  said  emphatically, 
"No." 

"  Have  I  ever  appeared  mad  in  your  eyes  ?  Have  I  ever 
seemed  to  you  to  act  on  suddenly-formed  resolutions,  —  to  pur- 
sue a  very  imjDortant  course  of  action  without  due  reason  ?  " 

Reuben,  getting  more  puzzled  yet,  answered,  "  Certainly  not, 
sir." 

"  Then  should  you  think  me  a  madman  if  I  told  you  that  I  was 
your  father  ?  " 

Reuben  started  and  turned  pale.  He  was  utterly  unprepared 
for  this.  His  facile  face  assumed  a  look  of  painful  anxiety,  and 
he  stood  with  half-opened  mouth,  waiting  for  Sir  George  to  go  on, 
evidently  only  half  understanding  what  he  had  said  already. 

"  Such  is  the  case,"  he  went  on.  "  Do  not  ask  me  for  the 
proofs,  my  poor  boy,  but  believe  me.  Does  not  nature,  does  not 
your  heart,  tell  you  that  I  am  right,  as  they  both  do  me  ?  " 

Reuben  looked  at  him  one  moment,  and  then  said,  wondermg, 
"  Father !     My  father  1 " 

Sir  George  mistook  the  tone  in  which  Reuben  spoke.  He 
thought  that  Reuben  spoke  in  affectionate  recognition  of  his 
claims,  whereas  it  was  simply  an  ejaculation  of  wonder.  It  was 
the  first  time  that  any  one  had  ever  called  him  by  the  sacred  old 
name,  and  he  felt  a  strange  pleasure  in  it.  Gerty's  boy  used  to 
call  him  papa ;  how  sickly  and  artificial  it  sounded  after  ''  father ! " 
He  paused  an  instant,  and  then  went  on,  — 

"  Yes  ;  I  am  your  father,  Reuben.  Remember  that.  Impress 
that  on  your  mind.  There  is  no  possibility  of  a  doubt  of  it. 
Keep  that  steadily  before  you  through  everj' thing.  I  have  been 
a  bad  father  to  you,  but  you  must  forgive  and  forget  all  that." 

"I  have  never  had  anything  but  kindness  from  you,  sir,"  said 
Reuben. 

"  You  have  had  very  little  of  it,  my  poor  boy.  Never  mind ; 
there  is  time  enough  to  mend  all  that.  Now  I  have  had,  as  you 
may  suppose,  a  very  distinct  object  in  making  this  startling  an- 
nouncement to  you  tliis  day  above  all  others,  for  my  conduct  to 
you  must  show  you  that  I  have  known  the  secret  a  long  time." 

Reuben  assented,  and  began  to  look  on  his  new-found  father 
with  more  interest  as  his  mind  took  in  the  facts  of  the  case. 

"  Now,"  continued  Sir  George,  "  that  treble-dyed,  unmitigated 


THE  HILLYAKS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  2oo 

villain,  who  used  to  pretend  that  you  were  his  son,  —  that  Samuel 
liurton  and  I  are  at  deadly  variance,  and  I  have  made  this  an- 
nouncement to  you,  in  order  that  you  may  know  which  side  you 
ouizlit  to  take,  should  you  unhappily  he  called  on  to  choose,  which 
God  forbid.  I  have  nothing  more  to  say  to  you.  Come  to  me 
here  at  twelve  o'clock  to-morrow  morning ,  for  I  am  going  a  long 
and  weary  journey,  and  I  want  to  say  good-bye  to  you  before  I 

"  jNIay  not  I  go  with  you,  sir  ? "  said  Reuben,  in  a  low  and 
husky  voice.     "  I  would  be  very  faithful  —  " 

"No,  no!"  said  Sir  George,  somewhat  wildly.  "On  any  other 
journey  but  this,  my  boy.  Stay  at  home,  and  keep  watch  over 
Lady  Ilillyar.  I  will  w'rite  secretly  to  you,  and  you  must  do  the 
same  to  me.     Now  go." 

So  the  next  day  at  noon,  on  George's  return  from  Croydon, 
he  found  Reuben  waitinsj  for  him  ;  and  he  ";ave  him  a  few  instruc- 
tions  in  the  library,  and  bade  him  wait  in  the  courtyard  to  see 
the  last  of  him. 

Meanwhile  Gerty  had  sat  still  in  her  dressing-room,  with  the 
child  on  her  bosom,  in  the  same  state  of  stupid  horror  into  which 
she  had  fallen  on  reading  the  terrible  letter,  —  utterly  unable  to 
realize  her  position,  or  decide  on  any  line  of  action.  But  now 
she  rose  up,  for  she  heard  George's  foot  on  the  stair,  and  heard 
his  voice,  his  kindest  voice,  crying,  "  Gerty  !  Gerty  !  "  But  she 
did  not  answer ;  and  George,  opening  the  door  of  the  room,  was 
surprised  to  see  her  standing  there,  pale  and  wan,  with  the  terror 
which  yesterday  had  been  on  his  face  reflected  on  hers. 

"  Gerty,  are  you  ill  ?  " 

"  Yes,  George ;  I  think  I  am  ill.  No,  I  am  not  ill.  I  am 
nervous.     Nothing  more." 

"  Gerty,"  said  George,  "  I  am  going  away." 

«  Yes,  George." 

"  For  a  long  time,  —  a  very  long  time." 

"  Yes,  George.     Am  I  to  come  ?  " 

"  No  ;  you  must  stay  where  you  are." 

"  Very  well.     Are  you  going  to  Australia  ?  " 

"  No ;  to  Paris  first,  and  God  only  knows  where  afterwards." 

"  If  you  go  to  Vienna,  I  wish  you  would  get  me  a  set  of  but- 
tons like  Lady  Bricbracks.  They  are  not  very  dear  ;  but  no  one 
else  has  got  them,  and  I  should  like  to  annoy  her." 

"  Very  well,"  said  George.     "  Good-bye." 

She  kissed  him, —  a  cold  little  kiss,  —  and  he  was  gone.  "And 
she  can  part  from  me  like  ihat,'^  said  poor  George,  bitterly,  little 
dreaming  how  much  she  ki>ew. 

But  she  went  to  the  window,  for  she  knew  that  she  could  see 
him  ride  across  a  certain  piece  of  glade  in  the  park  a  long  distance 


2o6  THE    HILLYARS  AND   THE  BURTONS. 

off.  She  had  often  watched  for  him  here.  It  reminded  her  of 
the  first  time  she  had  ever  seen  him,  at  the  Barkers'.  They  had 
made  him  out  a  long  distance  off  by  his  careless,  graceful  seat, 
and  had  said,  "  That  is  Hillyar."  So  she  had  seen  him  the  first 
time  four  years  before,  when  he  had  come  riding  to  woo ;  so  she 
saw  him  now  for  the  last  time  forever. 

She  saw  the  familiar  old  figure  ride  slowly  across  the  open 
space  in  the  distance  and  disappear ;  and  she  felt  that  she  loved 
him  still,  and  burst  out  wildly  weeping,  and  cried  out  vainly, 
"  George  !  George !  come  back  to  me,  darling !  and  I  will  love 
you  all  the  same ! "  A  vain,  vain  cry.  He  passed  out  of  her 
sight  and  was  gone  forever. 


CHAPTER    XLVIII. 

JAMES   BURTON'S   STORY  :     THE    FORGE    IS  LIT   UP   ONCE  MORE. 

I  HAVE  no  doubt  that  I  should  have  been  very  much  aston- 
ished by  everything  I  saw,  when  I  first  found  solid  ground  under 
my  feet,  and  looked  round  to  take  my  first  view  of  Australia.  I 
was  prepared  for  any  amount  of  astonishment :  I  will  go  further, 
I  was  determined  to  be  astonished.  But  it  was  no  good.  The 
very  first  thing  I  saw,  on  the  wharf,  was  Mrs.  Bill  Avery,  in  a 
blue  cloth  habit,  with  a  low-crowned  hat  and  feather,  riding  a 
three-quarters  bred  horse,  and  accompanied  by  a  new,  but  de- 
voted husband,  in  breeches,  butcher's  boots,  a  white  coat,  and  a 
cabbage-tree  hat ! 

That  cured  me  of  wondering.  I  pointed  her  out  to  my  moth- 
er, and  she  gave  utterance  to  the  remarkable  expressions  which  I 
have  described  her  as  using,  when  I  mentioned  this  wonderful 
rencontre  almost  at  the  beginning  of  my  narrative :  in  addition  to 
which,  as  I  now  remember,  she  said  that  you  might  knock  her 
down  with  a  feather,  —  which  must  be  considered  as  a  trope,  or 
figure  of  speech,  because  I  never  saw  a  woman  of  any  size  or 
age  stronger  on  her  legs  than  my  mother. 

Yes,  the  sight  of  Mrs.  Bill  Avery,  thai  was  "  a  cockhorse,"  as 
Fred  expressed  it  in  his  vigorous  English,  took  all  the  wondering 
faculty  out  of  me  for  a  long  time,  or  1  should  have  wondered  at 
many  things ;  such  as,  why  I  should  have  begun  thinking  of  a 
liberal  and  elegant  caricature  I  had  in  my  possession,  of  the  Pope 
of  Rome  being  fried  in  a  frying-pan,  and  the  Devil  peppering 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  257 

liiin  out  of  a  pepper-box ;  but  this  was  not  very  wonderful,  con- 
s'ulering  that  tlie  tliermometer  stood  120°  in  tlie  shade,  that  it  was 
bh)\viiig  half  a  gale  from  the  northward,  and  that  the  flying  dust 
was  as  big  as  peas. 

I  might  have  wondered  why  INIr.  Secretary  Oxton,  tliat  great 
and  awful  personage,  sat  upon  the  shafts  of  an  empty  dray,  ju>t 
as  you  or  I  miglit  have  done ;  and  why,  since  he  was  so  very  glad 
to  see  Messrs.  Dawson,  Pollifex,  and  Morton,  he  did  n't  get  up  and 
come  forward  to  shake  hands  with  them,  but  contented  himself 
by  bellowing  out  welcomes  to  them  from  a  distance  from  under 
his  white  umbrella ;  and  why  tliose  three  gentlemen,  the  moment 
they  had  shaken  hands  with  him,  and  with  Erne  the  moment  they 
were  introduced  to  him,  sat  down  instantly,  as  though  it  were  a 
breach  of  etiquette  to  stand  on  your  feet.  Why,  once  more,  I 
felt  exactly  as  though  I  had  been  doing  a  hard  day's  work  on  a 
hot  day  in  August,  whereas  I  had  only  stepped  out  of  a  boat, 
and  given  a  hand,  among  ten  more,  to  moving  our  things  into  a 
pile  on  the  wharf.  Why  did  I  feel  contented  and  stupid  and  idle, 
although  the  sand  was  filling  my  eyes  and  ears? 

Moreover,  although  I  am  now  accustomed  to  the  effects  of  a 
northerly  wind,  I  wonder  to  this  day  why  I  was  n't  surprised  at 
this. 

There  approached  us  rapidly  along  the  wharf  a  very  tall  and 
very  handsome  lady,  dressed  most  beautifully,  who  bore  down 
on  us,  followed  by  two  laboring  men,  whom  I  knew,  in  an  instant, 
by  their  faces,  to  be  Irishmen.  This  lady  pointed  out  us  and  our 
baggage  to  the  Irishmen,  who  immediately  began  taking  it  away 
piece  by  piece  on  a  truck,  without  one  single  word,  while  the 
lady  stood  and  looked  at  us  complacently.  We  did  not  interfere. 
It  was  probably  all  right.  It  might  be,  or  might  not  be ;  but, 
after  Mi-s.  Bill  Avery  in  a  hat  and  feathers,  on  a  high-stepping 
horse,  the  laws  of  right  and  wrong,  hitherto  supposed  to  be  fixed 
and  immutable  principles,  had  become  of  more  than  questionable 
validity.  Here,  in  this  country,  with  this  hot  wind,  it  might  be 
tlie  duty  of  these  Irishmen  to  steal  our  luggage,  and  we  might  be 
culpably  neglecting  ours  by  not  aiding  and  abetting  thera.  If 
you  think  I  am  talking  nonsense,  tiy  the  utter  bodily  and  moral 
prostration  which  is  induced  by  a  heat  of  125°  in  the  shade,  and 
the  spectacle  of.  a  convict  driving  by  in  a  carriage  and  pair. 

The  lady  stood  and  looked  at  Emma,  my  mother,  and  myself, 
sole  guardians  of  the  luggage,  except  the  children  and  Martha, 
with  infinite  contentment.  Once  she  turned  to  one  of  the  Irisli- 
men,  and  said,  "  Tim,  ye'd  best  tell  Mrs.  Dempsey  that  she  'd 
better  hurry  and  get  their  tay  ready  for  um,"  but  then  she  re- 
sumed her  gaze,  and  I  noticed  that  Emma  seemed  to  meet  her 
views  amazingly.     At  last  she  spoke. 


258  THE  HILLY AKS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  Your  brother  Joe  would  like  to  see  the  prorogun,  may  be, 
my  dear.  I'll  get  um  an  order  from  James  Oxtoii  or  some  of 
'em,  if  he 's  on  shore  in  time.  It 's  lucky  I  got  Gerty's  letter 
overland,  or  I  'd  not  have  expected  you,  and  ye'd  have  had  to  go 
to  the  barx." 

I  soon  understood  the  state  of  affairs.  Lady  Hillyar  had  writ- 
ten to  the  lady  before  us,  "'  Miss  Burke  " ;  and  she  had  taken  a 
house  for  us,  and  had  taken  as  much  pains  to  make  everything 
comfortable  for  our  reception  as  if  we  were  her  own  relations. 
When  Joe's  abilities  were  appreciated,  and  the  battle  royal  was 
fought,  our  intimate  relations  with  the  Irish  party,  to  most  of 
whom  we  were  bound  by  ties  of  gratitude  for  many  kindnesses,  — 
kindnesses  we  should  never  have  received  but  for  the  affectionate 
devotion  of  this  good  woman  towards  the  friends  of  all  those 
whom  she  had  ever  loved,  —  enabled  both  Joe  and  myself  to  take 
a  political  position  which  would  otherwise  have  been  impossible. 

But  we  are  still  on  the  wharf.  I  waited  until  every  chattel 
had  been  carried  off  by  the  Irishmen,  and  saw  my  mother,  Em- 
ma, and  the  children  carried  off  in  triumph  by  Miss  Burke,  who 
insisted  on  leading  Fred  and  carrying  his  horse  (or  rather  what 
remained  of  it,  for  the  head  and  neck,  tail,  and  one  leg  had  been 
lost  overboard  at  various  times,  and  the  stand  and  wheels  were 
now  used  for  a  cart)  ;  and  I  prepared  to  wait  in  the  dust  and  sun 
until  my  father,  Joe,  Treve thick,  and  Tom  Williams  should  come 
ashore  in  the  next  boat.  But,  the  moment  I  was  alone,  Erne 
came  and  led  me  up  to  the  empty  wool-dray,  in  which  the  leading 
Conservative  talent  of  the  colony  had  seated  itself  under  um- 
brellas. 

"  Don't  tell  me,"  the  Honorable  Mr.  Dawson  was  saying  en- 
ergetically, "  I  tell  you,  Oxton,  that  this  is  the  stuff  we  want.  / 
don't  hold  with  assisted  emigration.  Look  at  that  lad  before 
you,  and  talk  to  me  of  labor,  /say,  breed  it.  Take  and  breed 
your  labor  for  yourself.  That 's  his  sweetheart  going  along  the 
wharf  now  with  old  Lesbia  Burke,  carrying  a  bundle  of  shawls 
and  an  umbrella.     Take  and  breed  your  labor  for  yourself." 

This  was  reassuring  and  pleasant  for  a  modest  youth  of  nine- 
teen standing  alone  before  four  grand  gentlemen.  I  was  reliev- 
ed to  find  that  the  discussion  was  so  warm  that  I  was  only  noticed 
by  a  kindly  nod.  Mr.  Oxton  said,  in  a  voice  I  now  heard  for  the 
first  time,  —  a  clear  sharp  voice,  yet  not  wanting  in  what  the 
singers  call,  I  believe,  "  timbre  "  by  any  means : 

''  I  tell  you,  Dawson,  that  I  will  not  yield  to  this  factious  Irish 
cry.  Every  farthing  of  the  land  money  which  I  can  spare  from 
public  works  shall  go  to  the  development  of  the  resources  of 
the  colony  by  an  artificial  importation  of  labor.     Dixi." 

"Very  good,"  said  Dawson,  "I  did  hope  to  find  you  more 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  259 

reasonable.  Hang  the  resources  of  the  colony !  "Wool  is  the 
proper  resource  of  the  colouy.  I  want  skilled  labor  kep  up  and 
unskilled  labor  kep  down.  A  nice  thing  for  the  squatters  if 
mines  were  found  here,  —  and  mines  there  are,  as  sure  as  you're 
born.  Why,  I  tell  you,  —  for  we  're  all  squatters  here  together, 
—  that  I  've  got  a  piece  of  copper  under  my  bed  —  down  south  — 
I  won't  mention  names  —  as  big  as  a  quart  bottle.  If  that  was 
to  get  wind  among  any  Cornish  roughs,  you  'd  have  shepherd's 
wages  up  to  fifty  pounds  in  a  year.  I  don't  want  development ; 
I  want " 

"  What  suits  your  pocket,  old  fellow,"  said  Mr.  Oxton,  laugh- 
ing. *'  Man,  I  made  this  colony,  and  I  '11  stick  by  it.  These 
clever  Irishmen  are  merely  raising  this  cry  for  high-priced  labor 
and  cheap  land  to  get  me  out,  and  themselves  and  their  friends 
in.     I  will  not  interfere  in  the  price  of  labor  by  legislation -" 

"  Riglit  toorul  loorul,"  sang  the  light-hearted  Mr.  Morton, 
speaking  for  the  first  time ;  "  and  so  my  sweet  brother-in-law 
spends  the  capital  of  the  colony  by  flooding  the  labor  market 
with  all  the  uncriminal  offscourings  of  Old  England.  I  thank 
heaven  /  never  laid  claims  to  consistency." 

"  Jack,  you  're  a  fool,"  said  Mr.  Oxton.  "  Capital  invested  in 
importing  labor  pays  a  higher  interest  than  that  invested  in  any 
other  way,  even  if  one  leaves  out  the  question  of  human  hap- 
piness   ^" 

''  Oh  !  "  said  the  Honorable  Mr.  Dawson,  "  if  you  're  drove  to 
human  happiness,  you  'd  best  make  a  coalition  of  it  with  Phelim 
O'Ryan,  and  have  done.  I  'm  not  a-going  to  rat.  I  '11  stick  by 
you  faithful,  James  Oxton.  But  I  did  not  expect  to  have  my 
stomach  turned  with  that.'^ 

''  Well,"  said  the  Secretary,  "  there  's  one  more  session  ended, 
and  I  am  not  out  yet.  Come,  it  is  full  time  to  get  towards  the 
house.  Is  this  the  young  man  that  Lady  Hillyar  speaks  of,  Mr. 
Ilillyar?" 

''  Oh  dear  no,"  said  Erne ;  "  this  is  my  friend  Jim.  It  is  his 
brother  Joe  she  means." 

"  Then  perhaps  you  will  take  charge  of  this  for  your  brother, 
Burton.  If  you  are  in  by  half-past  four  it  will  do.  Good 
morninjj." 

And  so  the  four  statesmen  rose  by  degrees,  and  walked  away 
very  slowly,  under  their  umbrellas,  along  the  wharf;  never  one 
of  them  venturing  to  make  a  remark  without  stopping  and  lean- 
ing against  the  wall  fur  support.  If  it  became  necessary  to  re- 
ply, the  other  three  would  also  at  once  support  themselves 
against  the  wall  until  the  argument  was  finished.  After  which 
they  would  go  slowly  forward  again. 

I  found  that  the  paper  I  held  in  my  hand  was  an  order  for  two 


260  THE  HILLY ARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

persons  to  be  admitted  into  the  Gallery  of  the  House  of  Assem- 
bly, to  witness  the  ceremony  which  Miss  Burke  had  called  the 
"  prorogun."  It  appeared,  as  Erne  afterwards  told  me,  that  that 
most  good-natured  little  lady,  Lady  Hillyar,  liad  written  to  Mr. 
Oxton  about  Joe  especially,  telling  him  of  his  fancy  for  political 
life,  and  his  disappointment  owing  to  Sir  George  Hillyar  s  sud- 
den death.  She  begged  her  dear  James  to  make  them  elect  him 
into  the  Assembly  immediately,  as  he  was  as  much  fit  to  be  there 
as  that  dear,  kind  old  stupid  Dawson  (by  whom  she  meant  my 
friend,  the  Hon.  Mr.  D.)  was  to  be  in  the  Council.  Mr.  Oxton 
could  not  quite  do  all  she  asked ;  but,  for  his  dear  Gerty's  sake, 
he  did  all  he  could  at  present,  —  gave  Joe  and  myself  a  ticket  for 
the  prorogation  of  the  Houses. 

The  instant  that  the  rest  of  our  party  got  on  shore  with  the 
remainder  of  our  things,  I  pounced  on  Joe,  and  showed  him  the 
order.  The  weary,  patient  look  which  had  been  in  his  face  ever 
since  his  disappointment, —  and  which,  I  had  seen  with  regret, 
had  only  deepened  through  the  coniinement  and  inertness  of  the 
voyage,  —  gave  way  at  once  to  a  brighter  and  more  eager 
look,  as  I  explained  to  him  what  kind  Mr.  Oxton  had  done  for 
him. 

"  Jim,  dear,"  he  said,  taking  my  arm,  "  I  like  this  as  well  as  if 
any  one  had  given  me  ten  pounds.  I  want  to  see  these  colonial 
parliaments  at  work.  I  would  sooner  it  had  been  a  debate ;  but 
I  can  see  the  class  of  men  they  have  got,  at  all  events.  Let  us 
come  on  at  once,  and  get  a  good  place." 

So  we  packed  off  together  along  the  wharf;  and  I,  not  being 
so  profoundly  impressed  with  anticipation  of  the  majestic  spec- 
tacle of  representative  government  which  we  were  about  to  wit- 
ness as  was  Joe,  had  time  to  look  about  me  and  observe.  And 
I  could  observe  the  better,  because  the  fierce  hot  north  wind, 
which  all  the  morning  had  made  the  town  like  a  dusty  brickfield, 
had  given  place  to  an  icy  blast  from  the  south,  off  the  sea,  which 
made  one  shiver  again,  but  which  was  not  strong  enough  to  move 
tlie  heaps  of  dust  which  lay  piled,  like  yellow  snow-wreaths  at 
each  street  corner,  ready  for  another  devil's  dance,  to  begin  punc- 
tually at  nine  the  next  morning. 

The  town  was  of  magnificent  proportions,  as  any  one  who  has 
been  at  Palmerston  within  the  last  six  years  will  readily  allow  ; 
but,  at  the  time  I  am  speaking  of,  the  houses  did  not  happen 
(with  trifling  exceptions)  to  be  built.  Nevertheless,  the  streets 
were  wide  and  commodious,  calculated  for  an  immense  amount 
of  trafiic  had  the  stumps  of  the  old  gum-trees  been  moved,  which 
they  wern't. 

There  was  a  row  of  fine  warehouses,  built  solidly  with  free- 
stone, along  the  wharf;  but,  after  one  had  got  back  from  the 


THE  HILLY ARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  261 

wharf,  up  the  gentle  rise  on  which  the  town  stands,  Palmerston 
might  at  that  time  be  pronounced  a  patchy  metropolis.  At 
every  street-corner  there  was  a  handsome  buildijig  ;  but  there 
were  long  gaps  between  each  one  and  the  next,  occupied  by  half- 
acre  lots,  on  which  stood  tenements  of  wood,  galvanized  iron,  and 
tin,  at  all  possible  distances  and  at  all  possible  angles  from  the 
main  thoroughfare.  As  an  instance,  on  the  half-acre  lot  next  to 
the  branch  of  the  Bank  of  New  South  Wales,  a  handsome  Doric 
building,  the  proprietor  had  erected  a  slab  hut,  barkroofed,  lying  at 
an  angle  of  say  35°  to  the  street.  At  the  further  end  of  this,  and 
connected  with  it,  was  a  dirty  old  tent,  standing  at  an  angle  of  35° 
to  the  slab  hut.  In  the  corner  formed  by  these  two  buildings  was 
a  big  dog,  who  lived  in  a  tin  packing  case,  and  mortified  himself 
by  bringing  blood  against  the  sharp  edges  of  it  every  time  he 
went  in  and  out ;  and  who  now,  after  the  manner  of  the  P^ast- 
erns,  had  gone  up  on  to  the  flat  roof  of  his  house  in  the  cool  of 
the  evening,  and  was  surveying  the  world.  All  the  place  was 
strewed  with  sheepskins  ;  and  in  front  of  all,  close  to  the  road, 
was  an  umbrella-tent,  lined  with  green  baize,  in  which  sat  the 
proprietor's  wife,  with  her  shoes  off,  casting  up  accounts  in  an  old 
vellum  book.  From  the  general  look  of  the  place,  I  concluded 
that  its  owner  was  a  fellmonger,  and  habitually  addicted  to  the 
use  of  strong  waters.  Being  thrown  against  him  in  the  way  of 
business  a  sliort  time  after,  I  was  delighted  to  find  that  I  was 
riglit  in  both  particulars. 

I  don't  know  that  this  was  the  queerest  establishment  which  I 
noticed  that  day.  I  think  not ;  but  I  give  it  as  a  specimen,  be- 
cause the  Bank  of  New  South  Wales  stands  near  the  top  of  the 
hill ;  and,  when  you  top  that  hill,  you  are  among  the  noble  group 
of  Government  buildings,  and  from  among  them  you  look  down 
over  the  police  paddock  on  to  the  Sturt  river  again,  which  has 
made  a  sudden  bend  and  come  round  to  your  feet.  You  see 
Government  House,  nobly  situated  on  the  opposite  hill,  and  be- 
low you  observe  "  The  Bend,"  lion.  J.  Oxton's  place,  and  many 
other  buildings.  But,  more  than  all,  looking  westward,  you  see 
Australia,  —  Australia  as  it  is,  strange  to  say,  from  Cape  Otway 
to  Port  Essington,  more  or  less,  —  endless  rolling  wolds  of  yel- 
low grass,  alternated  with  long,  dark,  melancholy  bands  of  color- 
less forest. 

"  Joe  ! "  I  said,  catching  his  arm,  "  Joe  !  look  at  that." 

"  At  what  ?  " 

"  Why,  at  that.     That 's  itJ' 

"  Tliat  's  what  ?  old  man,"  said  Joe. 

"  Wiiy,  it.  The  country.  Australey.  Lord  A'mighty,  ain't 
it  awful  to  look  at  ?  " 

"  Only  plains  and  woods,  Jim,"  said  Joe,  wondering.  "  It  is 
not  beautiful,  and  I  don't  see  anything  awful  in  it." 


262  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  But  it 's  so  lonely,"  I  urged.  "  Does  any  one  ever  go  out 
yonder,  over  those  plains  ?     Does  any  one  live  over  there  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  so,"  said  Joe,  carelessly.  ''  Oh  yes,  and  miles 
beyond  that.     Come,  let  us  get  our  places." 

The  House  of  Assembly,  —  the  Commons  of  the  Colony,  — 
was  the  prettiest  among  all  the  pretty  group  of  Government 
buildings,  and  most  commodiously  arranged  inside  also,  with  an 
excellent  gallery.  As  soon  as  we  were  seated,  having  about  half 
an  hour  to  wait,  I  began  thinking  of  that  desolate,  wild-looking 
landscape  I  had  just  seen,  —  thinking  by  what  wonderful  acci- 
dent it  came  about  that  all  the  crime  of  the  old  country  should 
have  been  sent  for  so  many  years  to  run  riot  in  such  a  country 
as  that.  I  could  understand  now,  how  any  mind,  brooding  too 
long  in  solitude,  miles  away  from  company,  among  dark  forests 
or  still  more  dreary  plains,  like  those,  might  madden  itself;  and 
also  beoan  to  understand  how  the  convict  mind  under  those  cir- 
cumstances  sometimes  burst  forth  with  sudden  volcanic  fury,  and 
devoured  everything.  "  Fancy  a  man,"  I  said  to  myself,  "  taking 
the  knowledge  of  some  intolerable  wrono;  into  those  woods  with 

him,  to  nurse  it  until "     And  I  began  to  see  what  had  led 

my  thoughts  this  way  almost  unconsciously,  for  beside  me  was 
sitting  the  man  I  had  seen  with  Mrs.  Avery. 

I  confess  that  I  felt  a  most  eager  curiosity  to  know  something 
about  this  man.  He  was  a  good-looking  fellow,  about  thirty  or 
thereabout,  with  a  very  brown  complexion,  very  bold  eyes,  and 
a  somewhat  reckless  look  about  him.  Now  and  afterwards  I 
found  out  that  he  was  a  native  of  the  colony,  a  very  great  stock- 
rider, and  was  principal  overseer  to  Mr.  Charles  Morton. 

He  was  easily  accessible,  for  he  began  the  conversation.  He 
talked  for  a  considerable  time,  and  of  course  he  began  to  talk 
about  horses.  This  was  what  I  wanted.  1  said,  I  thought  I 
saw  him  riding  that  morning  on  the  wharf.  He  fell  into  my 
trap,  and  said  Yes,  he  had  been  riding  there  with  his  wife. 

I  was  very  much  shocked  indeed ;  but  I  had  not  much  time  to 
think  about  it,  for  two  ushers,  coming  in,  announced  his  Excel- 
lency and  the  members  of  the  Council.  And  enter  his  Excellency 
at  the  upper  end  of  the  room,  resplendent  in  full  uniform,  ac- 
companied by  the  commandant  of  the  forces,  and  Mr.  Midship- 
man Jacks,  —  which  latter  young  gentleman  had,  I  regret  to 
say,  mischievously  lent  himself  to  an  intrigue  of  the  Opposition, 
and  smuggled  himself  in  at  his  Excellency's  coat-tails,  to  spoil 
the  effect.  Close  behind  the  Governor,  however,  came  no  less 
than  sixteen  of  the  members  of  the  Council,  headed  by  Mr. 
Secretary  Oxton.  And  a  nobler-looking  set  of  fellows  I  have 
seldom  seen  together.  My  friend,  the  Hon.  Mr.  Dawson,  was 
not  quite  so  much  at  his  ease  as  I  could  have  wished  him  to  be. 


THE  UILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  2G3 

lie  turned  round  whenever  he  couglied,  and  did  it  humbly  ])e- 
liind  his  hiind.  He  also  opened  the  ceremony  by  droppini^  bis 
Imt,  —  a  tall,  white,  hairy  one,  like  a  Frenchman's,  —  wliicli 
iiuule  a  hollow  sound  wbeu  it  dropped,  and  rolled  ofT  the  dais 
into  the  body  of  the  ball,  and  was  politely  restored  to  him  by  the 
leader  of  the  Opposition. 

The  members  of  the  Assembly  rose  as  the  Governor  and  the 
Council  came  in.  The  Government  members  were  below  me  ; 
so  I  could  not  see  them ;  but  I  had  a  good  look  at  the  Oppo- 
sition, who  were  directly  in  front  of  me.  The  man  who  sat 
nearest  the  Speaker's  chair  was  evidently  the  leader,  —  the  ter- 
rible ]Mr.  Phelim  O'Ryan,  James  Oxton's  bitter  enemy,  of  w.honi 
we  had  heard  so  much  on  the  voyage.  I  was  prepared  to  hate  this 
unprincipled  demagogue,  and  probably  should  have  done  so,  if  I 
had  n't  looked  at  him.  No  man  could  look  at  Phely  O'Hyan, 
that  noble,  handsome,  Galway  giant,  and  not  begin  to  like  him ; 
and,  if  he  got  ten  minutes'  talk  with  you,  —  there.  That  is 
what  makes  the  villain  so  dangerous. 

Phelim  O'Ryan  is  talented,  well  read,  brave,  witty,  eloquent, 
and  also  one  of  the  kindest  and  most  generous  of  men.  But,  — 
well,  I  wish  sometimes  he  would  tell  you  what  he  was  going  to 
do  beforehand.  It  might  be  convenient.  Lad  as  I  was,  when  I 
looked  at  him  that  day,  I  still  had  some  dim  consciousness  that  that 
handsome  gentleman  was  capable  of  saying  a  little  more  than  he 
meant.  But  I  did  not  look  at  him  long;  for  my  eyes  were  sud- 
denly riveted  on  the  man  who  stood  next,  partly  behind  him, 
and,  as  I  looked,  whispered  in  his  ear.  A  pale  man,  with  a 
vastly  tall,  narrow  forehead,  great,  eager  eyes,  and  a  gentle  sweet 
face,  —  a  face  which  would  have  won  one  at  once,  had  it  not 
been  for  a  turn  or  twitch  at  the  corner  of  his  mouth,  suggestive 
of  vanity.  A  most  singular-looking  man,  though  you  could 
hardly  say  why ;  for  the  simple  reason  that  his  singularity  was 
caused  by  a  combination  of  circumstances,  possibly  assisted  by 
slight  affectation  in  dress.  I  had  just  concentrated  my  attention 
on  him,  when  Joe,  who  had  been  talking  to  his  neighbor,  caught 
my  arm,  and  said,  — 

'•  Jim,  do  you  see  the  man  who  is  whispering  to  O'Ryan  ?  " 

I  said,  '•  I  'm  looking  at  him." 

"  Do  you  know  who  he  is  ?  " 

"  I  want  to,  most  extra  particular,"  I  answered,  "  for  a  queerer 
card  I  never  saw  turned." 

"  3Iau  ! "  said  Joe,  squeezing  my  arm,  "  that 's  Dempsey. 
Dempsey,  the  great  Irish  rebel." 

I  said,  "  O,  ho !  "  and  had  no  eyes  for  any  one  else  after  this, 
but  sat  staring  at  the  rebel  with  eager  curiosity,  or  I  might  have 
wasted  a  glance  on  the  man  who  stood  next  hiin,  —  Dr.  Too- 


2G4  THE  HILLY ARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

good,  a  bi<T^  man  of  portly  presence,  about  sixty,  with  a  large  red 
face,  carefully  shaved,  and  an  immense  powerful  jaw ;  whose 
long  white  hair  fell  back  over  his  coat  collar.  A  man  with  a 
broad-brimmed  hat,  worn  at  the  back  of  his  head,  loose  black 
Quaker-like  clothes,  a  wisp  of  a  white  tie  round  his  neck  with  no 
collar,  a  Gam  pine  umbrella,  and  big  shoes.  He  is  clever,  hon- 
est, and  wonderfully  well-informed ;  but,  what  with  always  hav- 
ing a  dozen  irons  in  the  fire  at  once,  and  being  totally  unable  to 
keep  a  civil  tongue  in  his  head  towards  his  scientific  and  politi- 
cal opponents,  the  dear  Doctor  has  hitherto  only  succeeded  in 
making  a  more  or  less  considerable  mess  of  it. 

His  Excellency  congratulated  both  branches  of  the  Legisla- 
ture on  the  material  and  moral  progress  of  the  colony,  which,  if 
not  so  great  as  in  some  years,  yet  was  still  considerably  in  ad- 
vance of  others.  Exports  had  slightly  fallen  off ;  but  then,  on  the 
other  hand,  imports  had  slightly  increased,  principally  in  articles 
of  luxury ;  and  he  need  not  remind  them  that  a  demand  for 
such  articles  was  a  sure  sign  of  general  prosperity  (to  which  Joe 
said,  "O  Lord!").  In  consequence  of  the  even  balance  of 
parties,  the  present  Government  had  only  carried  through  seven 
bills  out  of  eleven,  and  although  he  would  be  the  last  man  in  the 
world  to  accuse  the  present  Opposition  of  anything  approaching 
to  faction,  yet  still  he  saw  with  deep  regret  the  rejection  of  such 
an  exceedingly  useful  public  measure  as  the  Slaughter-house  Act. 
However,  the  present  Government  had  not  chosen  to  make  it  a 
party  question,  and  so  he  had  nothing  more  to  say.  Crime  had 
diminished,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  the  public  health  had  slightly 
deteriorated.  He  thanked  them  for  their  patient  attention  to 
their  duties ;  and  then  he  put  on  his  cocked  hat,  and  there  was 
peace  in  Israel  for  six  months. 

I  thought  the  speech  rather  too  trivial  for  her  Majesty's  rep- 
resentative to  deliver  to  what  was  really  a  most  noble  and  im- 
pressive assembly,  charged  with  the  destinies  of  an  infant  nation. 
But  Sir  Richard  Bostock  knew  what  he  was  about,  and  so  did 
the  colony.  Government  had  suffered  several  defeats  in  ques- 
tions of  public  utility,  which  showed  that  the  Opposition  were 
factious  and  determined ;  and  so  they  were  nervous.  But,  on 
the  other  hand,  Ministers  had  carried  their  seven  best  measures 
through,  and  so  tlie  Op[)Osition  were  anxious  also.  The  rejec- 
tion of  one  more  Government  bill  would  probably  have  forced 
James  Oxton  to  appeal  to  the  country;  in  which  case  the  Oppo- 
sition, olhcered  almost  entirely  by  Irishmen,  and  working  tiie 
elections  with  a  vigor  and  unanimity  which  the  other  two  nations 
never  equal,  would  most  likely  have  gained  seats  enough  to 
bring  in  their  great  measure  from  the  Ministerial  benches,  with 
some  hopes  of  its  being  carried.     Both  parties  were  therefore 


THE   UILLYARS  AND  THE   BURTONS.  2G5 

watching  one  another  like  two  fierce  dogs,  eager  to  be  at  one 
another's  throats.  Hence  the  ridiculously  cautious  speech  of  the 
Governor. 

Anil  what  was  tliis  wonderful  measure  whicii  tlie  Radicals  had 
determined  to  bring  in  at  the  first  moment  that  there  was  the 
very  slenderest  \\o\)e  of  a  majority?  It  was  simply  revolution- 
ary, and  involved  interests  absolutely  gigantic.  I  will  explain  it 
very  shortly.  The  area  of  the  'colony  was  460,000  square  miles, 
of  which  area  124,000  square  miles  were  occupied  by  that  singu- 
lar aristocracy  called  squatters,  men  who  rent  vast  tracts  of  land 
from  Government  for  the  depasturing  of  their  fiocks,  at  an  almost 
nominal  sum,  subject  to  a  tax  of  so  much  a  head  on  their  sheep 
and  cattle.  The  Radicals  proposed  to  throw  the  whole  of  the 
laud  open  for  selection  on  the  American  principle,  at,  if  possible, 
five  shillings  an  acre.  Should  they  succeed  in  this,  they  would 
instantly  follow  by  a  Forty -acre  Qualification  Bill ;  and,  were 
one  single  House  to  be  elected  on  those  principles,  every  one 
knew  that  manhood  suffrage  would  follow  in  a  year.  It  was  really 
a  great  and  noble  question  ;  and  no  one  who  looked  and  saw  such 
giants  as  Oxton  and  Pollifex  on  the  one  side,  and  as  O'Ryan, 
Dempsey,  and  Toogood  on  the  other,  could  for  a  moment  doubt 
that  it  would  be  a  splendid  and  heroic  quarrel  right  bravely  fought 
out. 

So  thought  I,  as  Joe  and  I  walked  along  the  street  together,  — 
he  dragging  his  vast  misshapen  bulk  along  with  sudden  impatient 
jerks,  gesticulating  with  his  long  arms  and  tossing  his  beautiful 
head  up  now  and  then  as  though  he  himself  were  in  the  forefront 
of  the  battle,  as  indeed  he  was  in  his  imagination.  And,  when 
he  turned  round  on  me,  and  I  saw  that  his  tace  was  flushed,  and 
that  his  eyes  were  gleaming,  and  his  close-set,  Castlereagh  mouth 
twitching  with  excitement,  I  said  to  myself,  "  There  is  a  man  fit 
to  fight  among  the  foremost  of  them,  if  they  only  knew." 

Such  were  the  peo[)le  among  whom,  and  the  atmosphere  in 
which,  we  strangely  found  ourselves.  Though  strange  at  first, 
it  soon  became  quite  familiar ;  and  it  is  now  without  the  slightest 
astonishment  that  I  find  our  humble  story,  like  the  story  of  the 
life  of  every  one  in  a  very  small  community  with  liberal  institu- 
tions, getting  to  some  extent  mixed  up  with  the  course  of  colonial 
politics. 

12 


266  THE  HILLYAKS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

CHAPTER    XLIX. 

IN   WHICH  TWO   BAD  PENNIES   COME   BACK. 

We  stayed  in  the  lodging  which  Miss  Burke  had  so  kindly 
found  for  us,  in  the  Irish  quarter  of  Palraerston,  for  a  considera- 
ble time.  "NYe  might  have  had  quieter  neighbors,  I  will  allow  ; 
but  it  is  impossible  that  we  could  have  had  kinder.  We  were 
free  of  the  quarter,  —  nay  more,  under  the  protection  of  the 
quarter.  No  one  ever  offered  to  fight  us ;  and,  as  for  the  noise, 
why  I  have  heard  noise  enough  in  Lawrence-street,  Chelsea,  at 
times.  We  were  quite  used  to  that  sort  of  thing,  and  got  on  most 
comfortably. 

In  some  mysterious  way  our  affairs  seemed  prospering,  for  I 
noticed  that  my  father's  calm,  square  face,  so  dear  to  me,  so  close- 
ly watched  by  me,  grew  brighter  every  day.  The  frequent  in- 
terviews with  the  Hon.  Mr.  Dawson,  seemed  to  afford  him  great 
satisfaction.  At  last  he  came  home  one  night,  and  said  that  we 
should  have  to  prepare  ourselves  to  go  over  yonder  in  a  few 
months.  On  its  being  clamorously  demanded  of  him  where  that 
was,  he  merely  replied,  "  Why,  over  yonder,"  and  pointed  to 
the  right  of  the  fire-place,  in  the  direction,  as  I  afterwards  as- 
certained, of  the  South  Pole. 

My  father  was  a  great  deal  with  Mr.  Dawson  now,  and  I  and 
the  rest  of  us  guessed  that  Mr.  Dawson  was  putting  him  in  the 
way  of  some  business.  Tom  Williams  had  got  leave  from  my 
father  to  go  to  work  with  Trevittick  at  a  forge  in  the  town.  1 
could  have  gone  too,  for  I  was  fearful  of  getting  behind  in  my 
work,  and,  though  I  was  very  very  fond  of  Tom  Williams,  yet 
I  should  hardly  have  liked  to  have  him  pass  me  ;  but  Mr.  Daw- 
son would  not  allow  me  to  go  to  work.  He  negatived  the  prop- 
osition flatly,  and  got  my  father  to  back  him,  by  some  gross 
misrepresentation  or  another. 

I  have  said  that  my  father  was  a  great  deal  with  the  Hon. 
Mr.  Dawson,  but  I  think  I  ought  to  say  that  I  was  a  great  deal 
more  with  him.  Every  night,  or  nearly  every  night,  as  soon  as 
it  was  dark,  Mr.  Dawson  would  come  to  our  house  and  ask  for 
me,  and  then  he  and  I  would  go  out  alone  together,  up  and 
down  the  most  secluded  outskirts  of  the  city,  hour  after  hour. 
And,  after  a  few  of  these  walks  in  the  dark,  under  the  Southern 
Cross,  among  the  whispering  trees  in  the  domain,  by  the  still 
silent  reaches  of  the  river,  or  beside  the  rushing  surf  of  the  moon- 
lit bay,  I  began  to  see  a  very  great  and  noble  soul,  trying,  through 


THE  HILLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS.  267 

the  fetters  of  ignorance  and  diilideiice,  to  unfold  itself  before  me. 
In  these  midnii;lit  walks,  I  heard,  bit  by  bit,  clumsily  told,  yet 
faithfnlly,  the  histoi-y  of  a  man  who  had  done  good  when  he  had 
had  every  temptation  to  do  evil ;  who  had  consistently  and  per- 
tinaciously followed  the  right,  —  more,  it  somehow  seemed  to 
nic.  by  some  blind  instinct,  than  by  any  intellectual  conviction. 

He  had  recognized  my  father's  great  worth  at  once,  and  had 
treated  him  as  an  equal  and  a  friend.  But  with  my  father  he 
never  made  any  allu-ion  to  his  origin.  He  was  nearly  as  jealous 
of  his  position  with  him  as  he  \vas  with  Pollifex  or  ]Morton.  In 
me  the  good  man  seemed  to  see  his  own  youth  reproduced,  and 
he  opened  his  heart  to  me.  I  was  at  that  time  just  what  he  had 
been  thirty  years  before, — a  young  blacksmith  apprentice.  His 
confidences  with  me  were  little  more  than  soliloquies  at  first. 
He  had  lived  in  and  for  himself  all  his  life,  and  in  me  he  saw  the 
old  self  of  his  youth  revived.  And  his  great  heart,  unspoilt  after 
so  many  fierce  struggles  with  a  world  which  had  never  had  a 
chance  of  understanding  him,  began  to  unfold  itself  before  the 
light  of  my  youth  and  my  love. 

"•  Old  chap,"  he  said  to  me  one  night,  among  the  silent,  aro- 
matic trees,  •'  I  've  been  fighting  your  battle  for  you." 

"  Yes,  sir  ?  "  I  answered. 

"  Ay.  But  I  have  n't  altogether  won  it.  I  was  trying  to  per- 
suade your  father  to  let  you  marry  at  once,  whereas  I  have  only 
beat  him  down  to  six  months,  or,  to  be  correct,  to  five  months 
and  eight  days.  At  the  end  of  that  time  old  fellow,  you  're  to 
have  your  indentures  give  you,  and  to  marry  Martha ;  which  is 
so  far  satisfactory,  as  Pollifex  said  when  he  had  shot  three  of 
the  bush-rangers  and  the  kangaroo-hounds  had  baited  the  fourth 
one  up  in  the  verandy." 

1  was  in  such  a  fi utter  of  happiness  at  this  most  unexpected 
news,  —  for  we  had  hoped  for  three  years,  —  that,  in  trying  to 
say  something  pretty  to  him,  I  found  that  I  was  nearly  reduced 
to  the  old  formula  of  ''  thank  you."  I  think  I  decorated  it  a 
little ;  for  my  kind,  good  friend,  who  deserved  the  title  of  Honor- 
able if  ever  a  man  did,  laid  his  hand  on  my  shoulder,  and  changed 
the  subject  for  a  time. 

"  Now,  old  fellow,  it  being  dark,  and  Pollifex  and  Morton 
not  looking  out  for  us  (and  that  is  the  reason  I  don't  walk  with 
you  in  the  daylight),  I  '11  just  speak  to  you  as  one  smith  may  to 
another.     What  am  I  to  do  about  Trevittick  ?  " 

"  About  Trevittick,  sir  ?  " 

"  Ah  !  about  Trevittick.  I  've  put  your  fiither  in  the  way  of 
making  his  fortune  in  the  trade.  He  is  grateful  enouirh  about 
the  matter ;  for  your  father  is  a  true  gentleman,  Jim,  mind  that, 
but  he  is  firm  on  that  point." 


2G8  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  * 

I  had  to  explain  that  I  knew  nothing. 

"  Why,  I  have  laid  your  fatlier  on  to  this  job.  The  township 
at  Port  Romilly  is  just  surveyed,  and  your  father  is  going  to  set 
up  his  forge  there.  Port  Romilly,  which  lies  just  under  Cape 
Wilberforce,  will  be  a  great  place,  and  your  father  will  make 
his  fortune.  Lord  bless  you,  I  '11  give  six  hundred  a  year  for 
your  father  in  six  months.  And  your  father  says  to  me,  as  firm 
as  a  rock,  '  If  I  ever  get  the  chance,  Mr.  Dawson,  I  '11  repay 
your  kindness  sevenfold ;  but,  with  regard  to  Trevittick,  sir,  tliat 
man  stuck  to  me  most  noble  when  the  whole  world  pretty  nigh 
had  left  me,  and  I  have  took  Trevittick  into  partnership ;  and  in 
partnership  he  stays,  sir,  unless  by  his  own  act.' " 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  my  dear  sir,  I  think  Trevittick  is  very  honest." 

"  Confound  him,  yes  ;  that 's  the  very  worst  of  it.  That 's  the 
very  mischief,  don't  you  see.  That 's  just  what  makes  one  long 
to  bang  his  curly  head  against  that  there  wall.  Two  days  ago, 
I  laid  that  man  on  to  a  capital  thing  in  the  North ;  but  no.  Says 
he  to  me,  as  bold  as  brass,  '  Sir,  I  thank  you  kindly ;  but  the 
company  of  those  Burtons  has  become  necessary  to  me.'  That 's 
just  the  words  he  said  to  me,  as  cool  as  you  like." 

"  He  '11  make  a  good  partner  to  my  father,  sir,"  I  ventured  to 
urge. 

"  Maybe,"  said  my  honorable  friend ;  "  but  I  don't  want  him 
down  South.  Who  is  that  Tom  Williams?  He  seems  very 
thick  with  him.  If  I  could  get  that  lad  away,  I  expect  Trevit- 
tick would  follow." 

"  I  dare  say  he  would,"  I  said  ;  "  but  Tom,  bless  you !  would 
be  lost  away  from  us.  He  won't  go.  My  father  took  him  from 
the  parish." 

"  Eh ! "  said  Mr.  Dawson,  with  new  interest. 

"  From  the  parish  workhouse.  Tooting,  you  know.  Had  n't 
got  any  father  and  mother,  as  far  as  could  be  ascertained.  At 
least,  not  worth  speaking  of  After  father  got  hold  of  him, 
he  grew  six  inches  and  increased  one  stone  six  in  weight  in  the 
first  year.  Father  used  to  have  him  put  opposite  to  him,  to  see 
him  eat  his  victuals.  That  boy  never  had  a  kind  word  before 
he  came  to  us ;  and  since  he  has  come  to  us,  he  has  never  had 
a  cross  one.     He  won't  go,  sir." 

"  Ought  to  be  hung  if  he  did,"  said  Mr.  Dawson.  "  A  parish 
boy,  eh  '^.    I  say,  old  fellow,  can  you  keep  a  secret  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so." 

"Why,  then,  /'ma  parish  boy,"  he  said.  "I  who  stand  here, 
by  God's  mercy,  a  rich  and  honorable  gentleman,  was  brought 
up  in  the  workhouse  of  St.  Nicholas  Without,  and,  if  that  ain't 
the  strangest  thing  ever  you  heard  on,  I  should  be  glad  to  know 
it." 


THE  HILLYARS  AND   THK   BURTONS.  269 

After  a  pause  he  went  on  :  "  AVe  were  n't  farmed  out  like  3'ou 
■was,  —  I  mean  like  Tom  Williams  was,  —  and  they  were  kind 
to  us  in  the  main.  Yes,  I  think  they  were  kind  to  me  in  the 
main.  After  forty  years,  Jim,  I  don't  hear  any  malice  to  any 
one  in  that  workhouse.  When  I  left  that  house  to  be  bound, 
I  left  it  with  a  glad  heart ;  and  I  turned  round  and  shook  my 
list  at  the  walls,  and  was  going  to  curse  it,  and  all  the  officers  in 
it,  save  one  ;  but  I  could  n't  do  it.  All  of  a  sudden  the  thought 
came  over  me  that  it  had  been  my  home  for  fourteen  years, 
hideous  and  wretched  as  it  was,  and  I  burst  out  crying.  After 
a  year  or  so,  my  heart  was  softened,  Jim,  and  I  felt  as  if  I  must 
go  back  and  see  the  officers,  more  particularly  one  I  thought  had 
always  used  me  cruel.  '  For '  I  said,  '  it 's  no  doubt  owing  to 
his  beating  on  me  morning,  noon,  and  night,  with  whatever  came 
handy,  that  makes  me  so  steady  and  industrious  now.'  He  used 
to  say  there  was  Scripture  for  it.  And  I  went  back  to  shake 
hands  with  him.  And  he  was  dead.  And  I  could  n't  ask  his 
pardon.  And  that 's  been  a  caution  to  me  about  bearing  malice 
ever  since." 

When  I  thought  of  the  tender  mercies  of  Tooting,  I  guessed 
how  much  this  good  man  had  to  forgive,  and  was  silent. 

"  But  the  master,"  he  continued,  in  a  brisker  tone.  "  There 
was  a  kind  man  for  you.  That  man  never  gave  me  one  hard 
word  in  fourteen  year." 

'•  Could  n't  he  have  stopped  old  Hopkins  from  beating  you, 
sir?" 

"  Lord  bless  you,  he  never  know'd  nothing  of  that.  I  never 
was  a  sneak.  I  'd  have  had  my  flesh  cut  to  pieces  before  I  'd 
have  sneaked.  And,  when  I  was  bound,  the  master  he  shook 
hands  with  me,  and  he  says,  '  You  've  been  a  good  steady  lad, 
Dawson.'  And  he  gave  me  a  shilling ;  and  I  bought  a  handker- 
cher  with  it,  which  I  've  got  now.  And,  when  I  die,  Jim  Burton, 
you  take  and  put  that  handkercher  into  my  coffin ;  or  the  money 
will  do  you  no  good." 

We  parted  here,  and  I  went  homeward,  thinking  how  it  was 
that  this  man  had  not  been  thrashed  into  a  savage  and  a  criminal, 
and  wondering  whether  some  people  were  born  so  good  that  you 
could  n't  spoil  them  ;  wondering  also  whether  that  calm  gentle 
eye,  that  quiet  face,  and  that  complacent  expression  of  strength 
in  the  whole  figure,  were  cause  or  effect ;  and  while  thinking  about 
it  I  got  home,  and  found  that  there  was  company  to  supper. 

Only  one.     A  lady.     Mrs.  Quickly. 

There  she  was,  sitting  opposite  my  mother,  exactly  the  same 
as  ever.  As  faultlessly  clean  and  neat,  with  the  same  excjuisite 
waxen-pale  complexion,  the  same  beautifully-parted  chestnut  hair, 
scarce  sprinkled  with  gray ;  the  same  daik  silk  gown,  fitting  bO 


270  THE  HILLYARS  AND   THE   BURTONS. 

perfectly  to  lier  neat  slim  figure ;  the  same  beautiful  thin  hands 
folded  in  her  lap  before  her;  the  same  snow-white  handkerchief, 
neatly  folded  over  her  bosom  ;  altogether  the  same  ideal  of  spot- 
less cleanliness  and  purity ;  slightly  overdone,  perhaps,  but  still 
beautiful  to  look  on,  as  of  yore  ;  with  the  very  same  prurient  little 
devil  sitting  in  the  corner  of  her  eye.  Mrs.  Quickly  was  there, 
not  changed  one  bit. 

Not  even  in  her  cap,  which  you  will  notice  that  I  have  not  as 
yet  mentioned.  The  fact  is  that,  although  Mrs.  Quickly  was  the 
very  pink  of  prudish  neatness  in  every  point,  yet  still  the  good 
woman  could  not  restrain  herself  in  the  matter  of  caps.  I  have 
no  doubt  she  would  have  done  it  if  she  could,  but  the  old  Adam 
was  too  strong  in  her.  She  had  on  a  cap  like  a  prize-fighting 
publican's  barmaid,  which  gave  her  very  much  the  appearance 
of  having  broken  out  into  blossom  like  an  amaryllis,  —  a  plant  of 
more  than  nun-like  quietness  of  stalk  and  foliage,  surmounted  by 
a  gaudy  crimson-and-white  blossom. 

When  Mrs.  Quickly  applied  for  the  post  of  under-matron  to 
Mrs.  Broodheu,  at  Sydney,  that  experienced  matron  gave  one 
look  at  her  cap,  and  another  at  her  eye,  and  ordered  her  out  of 
the  room.  She  forbade  her  to  come  near  the  place,  and  at  last 
made  Sydney  too  hot  to  hold  her.  Mrs.  Quickly  threatened 
to  go  to  her  lawyer,  but  did  n't.  There  is  no  doubt  that  Mrs. 
Quickly,  as  she  can  prove  to  you  any  day,  was  shamefully  used ; 
but  then  Mrs.  Broodhen  was  a  woman  of  great  sagacity  and  expe- 
rience, and,  as  a  general  rule,  knew  immensely  well  what  she  w^as 
about,  as  many  a  poor  friendless  girl  will  testify  with  blessings. 
I  traced  the  calumny  of  Mrs.  Quickly's  having  been  a  nobleman's 
mistress,  and  of  her  having  been  so  outrageously  extravagant  in 
dress  as  to  half  ruin  Lord  Holloway  and  oblige  him  to  live  abroad, 
to  Tom  Williams,  and  through  him  to  that  excellent,  though  indis- 
creet, busybody,  his  present  wife,  formerly  Miss  Polly  Ager,  of 
this  story.  Really,  even  now,  I  do  not  know  what  to  say  about 
Mrs.  Quickly.  I  am  in  a  minority,  but  1  can  only  say  that  when 
all  was  over  and  done,  she  made  her  story  good  to  me.  My  wife 
says  that  she  would  do  so  to  any  mau  who  was  fool  enough  to 
listen  to  her. 

But  still,  when  I  saw  that  woman  sitting  there,  I  felt  a  cold 
chill.  When  1  thought  of  Mrs.  Clayton  (whilom  Mrs.  Bill  Ave- 
ry), and  Mrs.  Quickly  living  in  the  same  town,  I  saw  that  at  any 
moment  an  ex})losion  might  take  place,  which  might  bring  infinite 
misery  on  the  head  of  the  innocent  Clayton,  and  others.  But 
tlien  I  said  to  myself  that  they  could  not  involve  us  in  it,  further 
than  as  spectators.  Tiie  Ilillyars  and  the  Burtons  lived  in  an 
atmosphere  of  their  own,  an  atmos})here  of  innocent  purity,  and 
could  not  be  involved  in  the  troubles  of  such  people  as  these. 
Alas! 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  271 

"  No,"  I  repeated  to  myself  next  morning,  "  the  innocent  won't 
puffer  for  tlie  guilty.  IMy  father  kept  tlie  peace  between  her  and 
her  husband  in  Brown's  Row  sometimes,  and,  if  anything  leaks 
out,  I  hope  he  '11  be  handy  to  do  it  again.  But  we  are  safe ;  our 
course  lies  smooth  and  clear  before  us." 

But,  when  I  came  round  the  corner  sharp,  the  very  next  min- 
ute, on  our  worthy  cousin  Samuel  Burton,  sitting  on  a  flour-bar- 
rel, under  a  large  unil)rella,  smoking  a  Manilla  cheroot,  in  the 
real  Australian  way,  with  the  big  end  in  his  mouth ;  then  I  was 
not  quite  so  sure  that  it  did. 


CHAPTER    L. 

TREVITTICK'S  LATENT  MADNESS  BEGINS  TO  APPEAR. 

The  fierce  summer  was  blazing  over  head ;  the  forests  were 
parched  and  crisp ;  the  plains  were  yellow  artd  dry,  and  the  rivers 
at  their  lowest :  some  barely  whispering,  others  absolutely  silent ; 
as  we  passed  away  to  the  southward,  towards  our  new  home,  and 
our  strange  new  fortunes. 

To  the  west  and  north  of  the  town,  the  dun  gray  wolds  rolled 
off  in  melancholy  waves  towards  the  great  interior ;  but  to  the 
south,  on  our  track,  the  vast  wood-clad  mountains,  dimly  visible 
in  the  southwest,  had  thrown  out  a  spur,  which  carried  the  dark 
forest  with  it  down  to  the  sea,  and  ended  not  ten  miles  from  the 
town  in  the  two  noble  promontories.  Cape  Horner  and  Cape  Hus- 
kisson ;  so  that  we  had  barely  got  clear  of  the  enclosures  when 
we  found  ourselves  out  of  sight  of  the  melancholy  plains,  travel- 
ling along  a  dusty  winding  track,  fringed  on  each  side  with  bracken 
fern,  through  a  majestic  open  forest  of  lofty  trees. 

"'  I  like  this  better  than  the  plains,"  said  Erne  to  me.  "  And 
yet  I  believe  that  I  am  going  to  live  in  the  most  dreary  part  of 
all  the  plains.  The  Secretary  says  that  they  have  to  send  five 
miles  for  firewood." 

"  Then  you  have  decided  what  to  do,  sir  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  was  going  to  tell  you  as  we  started,  but  your  natural 
anxiety  about  getting  on  horselmck  for  the  first  time  rendered 
you  rather  a  bad  listener.     How  do  you  feel  now  ?  " 

"  Comfortable  enough  for  you  to  go  on ;  time  is  getting  short." 

"  Well,  I  am  going  to  one  of  the  stations  belonging  to  Mr. 
Cliarles  Morton,  for  three  years,  to  learn  the  squatting  trade. 
The  Secretary  wanted  me  very  much ;  but  I  took  Morton's  offer, 


272  THE  HILLYARS   AND   THE  BURTONS. 

because  this  particular  station  of  his  lies  more  in  a  particular  direc- 
tion than  any  one  of  the  brother-in-law's ;  and  the  Secretary  said 
one  Station  was  as  good  as  another,  though  he  was  a  little  of- 
fended." 

"  I  suppose  it  is  nearer  to  us." 

"  It  is  only  sixty  miles ;  but  it  is  nearer  than  any  other." 

"  What  did  she  say  this  morning  ?  " 

"  The  old  word  '  never,'  Jim.  She  used  the  old  argument 
about  Joe's  deformity,  the  impossibility  of  his  marrying,  and  the 
necessity  of  some  one  devoting  herself  to  him.  And  I  said,  '  Sup- 
pose that  obstacle  could  be  removed,'  and  she  said  there  was  a 
greater  one  still.  She  w^ould  never  consent  to  drag  me  down  to 
her  level,  —  that  I  was  made  for  another  sphere  of  life  ;  and, 
wdien  I  impatiently  interrupted  her,  she  said :  '  INIr.  Hillyar,  would 
]Mr.  Oxton  or  Mrs.  Morton  receive  me  ?  And  don't  you  know 
that  you  would  be  cut  off  from  the  best  society  here  by  marrying 
me,  and  have  nothing  left  but  the  billiard-rooms  ? '  And  I  hesi- 
tated one  instant,  and  she  broke  out  into  a  little  laugh  at  me. 
And  she  let  me  kiss  her  hand,  and  then  we  separated  ;  and  that 
is  the  end  of  all,  my  old  Jim." 

"  Not  forever,"  I  said.  "  If  time  or  chance  could  remove  those 
two  obstacles ." 

"  I  am  faithful  forever,"  said  Erne,  in  a  low  voice,  "  but  I  am 
losing  hope.  If  I  did  not  know  she  loved  me,  I  could  bear  it  bet- 
ter   ." 

I  knew  what  was  coming,  from  experience,  —  a  furious  tirade 
against  ranks  and  proprieties  ;  but  he  was  interrupted,  for  a  horse 
came  brushing  rapidly  along  through  the  short  fern,  and  rattling 
amongst  the  fallen  bark,  which  lay  about  like  vast  sticks  of  cin- 
namon, and  up  came  the  Hon.  Charles  Morton  at  a  slinging  trot, 
on  a  big  chestnut,  with  a  blazed  face,  and  four  white  stockings,  a 
"  Romeo."  His  shining  butcher's  boots  fitted  like  a  glove,  or  like 
Custance's ;  his  spurs  were  fresh  from  the  plate-brush  ;  his  fawn- 
colored  breeches  fitted  to  perfection  ;  his  shirt  was  as  white  as 
the  Secretary's,  and  his  light  drab  riding  coat  (he  wore  no  waist- 
coat) was  met  by  a  bright  blue  scarf,  with  a  diamond  pin,  and  his 
Indian  pith  helmet  was  wound  round  with  a  white  veil ;  his  whis- 
kers and  mustache  were  carefully  trimmed;  and  altogether  he 
Avas  one  of  the  most  perfect  dandies  ever  seen.  This  was  Charles 
Morton  of  the  towns  ;  Charles  Morton  of  the  bush  —  the  pioneer 
—  was  a  veiy  different  object. 

"  Hallo,  Hillyar,  my  boy.  Well,  blacksmith,  how  are  you  to- 
day ?  Confoundedly  hot  in  these  forests,  is  it  not  ?  Hillyar  and 
I  shall  be  out  on  the  breezy  plains  in  an  hour;  you  will  have  for- 
est for  sixty  miles  or  thereabouts." 

I  touched  my  hat  for  the  information. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  273 

"  You  *11  soon  leave  off  doing  that,"  he  said,  looking  at  me, 
lauiihiug.  And  I  thought  if  I  never  touched  my  hat  to  a  less 
gal  hint-looking  gentleman  I  sliould  n't  care. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  advise  you  to  come  up  country  so  soon,"  said 
Mr.  iNIorton  to  Erne.  ''  liut  as  my  principal  overseer  in  those 
])arts  is  going  back,  it  will  be  a  great  opportunity  for  you.  He 
will  introduce  you  to  station  after  station  on  the  road.  He  is  not 
a  gentleman  by  birth,  but  he  is  always  received  as  one.  I  wish 
1  could  introduce  you  in  those  parts  myself;  but,  considering  your 
close  connexion  with  the  Secretary,  he  will  do  as  well.  Clayton 
will  prove  your  identity." 

"When  I  heard  the  name  "  Clayton,"  I  gave  a  violent  start,  and 
cried  out,  "  Good  gracious,"  which  made  my  horse  move  forward 
a  little  faster,  and  which,  consequently,  nearly  laid  me  on  my 
l)ack  in  the  road.  I  lost  both  my  stirrups,  and  hauled  myself  up- 
right again  by  the  reins.  But  my  horse  did  n't  care  a  bit.  He  only 
tliouixht  I  was  drunk.  He  was  an  ascd  stockhorse,  which  I  had 
bought  very  cheap,  as  being  a  secure  animal  to  begin  with.  He 
had  been  many  years  on  the  road,  and  had  carried  many  stock- 
riders out  of  Palmerston,  but  never,  hitherto,  a  sober  one.  He 
had  been  very  much  surprised  at  my  not  setting  off  fidl  gallop 
for  the  first  mile  or  two,  yelling  like  a  Bedlamite  ;  and  had  shown 
that  he  expected  that  to  happen  on  two  or  three  occasions,  to  my 
infinite  horror.  He  had  lonsf  since  come  to  the  conclusion  that  I 
was  too  far  gone  in  liquor  to  gallop ;  and,  after  my  last  reel,  he 
concluded  that  I  should  soon  fall  off,  and  go  to  sleep  in  the  road 
for  an  hour  or  two,  after  the  manner  of  stockmen  returning  from 
town ;  in  which  case  he  would  have  a  quiet  graze  until  I  got  so- 
ber. He  was  so  fully  persuaded  of  this  that  I  had  (with  infinite 
caution,  as  though  I  was  letting  off  a  large  and  dangerous  fire- 
work) to  give  him,  now  and  then,  a  gentle  reminder  with  the 
spur  to  make  him  keep  up  with  the  others. 

"  Hallo  !  blacksmith  ! "  said  Mr.  Morton.  "  We  must  teach  you 
to  ride  better  than  that  before  we  have  done  with  you.  But, 
Hilly ar,  you  will  find  Clayton  a  very  good,  honest  fellow.  His 
wife  is  a  woman  of  low  origin,  but  well-behaved,  who  sings  bal- 
lads, if  you  care  about  that ;  there  are  no  children,  which,  per- 
haps, you  will  be  glad  of.  You  will,  however,  find  some  books 
there.  I  am  sorry  to  put  you  in  a  house  where  there  is  no  soci- 
ety of  your  own  rank ;  but  it  was  your  choice,  remember.  As 
soon  as  you  feel  able  to  undertake  the  thing,  I  will  put  you  in 
charge  of  one  of  the  other  stations  thereabout,  and  then  you  will 
have  a  table  and  cellar  of  your  own.  It  is  time  to  say  good-bye 
to  your  friend  now ;  here  is  Wattle  Creek,  and  we  take  the  road 
to  the  right;  I  will  ride  on;  you  will  soon  pick  me  up.  Good- 
bve,  blacksmith.     God  speed  you  heartily,  my  boy." 

12*  K 


274  THE  niLLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

So,  in  his  delicacy,  he  rode  on,  and  left  Erne  and  me  alone  to- 
gether.   There  were  many  last  words ;  and  then  the  last  of  all  — 

"  Good-bye." 

"  Good-bve,  my  dear  old  Jim.  Keep  her  in  mind  of  me. 
Good-bye."" 

And  so  he  rode  slowly  away,  and  I  saw  him  through  a  mist. 
Wlien  my  eyes  cleared  again,  I  saw  him  passing  on  from  sunlight 
to  shade,  from  shade  to  sunlight  again,  through  an  aisle  in  the 
dim  forest  cathedral,  whose  pillars  were  trunks  of  the  box-trees, 
and  whose  roof  was  their  whispering  foliage.  Further  and  fur- 
ther yet,  until  he  was  lost  among  the  thickening  stems  and  denser 
boskage  of  some  rising  ground  beyond.  And  then  I  sat  upon  my 
grazing  horse,  alone  in  this  strange  forest,  foohshly  wondering  if 
I  should  see  him,  or  any  one  I  had  ever  known,  again ;  for  all 
the  past  seemed  more  like  reality  than  the  present. 

But  I  have  noticed  as  a  curious  fact  that  town-bred  blacksmith 
boys,  however  affectionate,  are  not  given  to  sentiment ;  and,  the 
moment  Erne  was  out  of  sight,  and  I  had  dried,  —  blown  my 
nose,  —  I  began  to  make  such  a  series  of  remarkable  discoveries 
that  Erne,  and  the  awful  fact  of  his  going  to  live  in  the  house 
with  Mrs.  Clayton,  sometime  Avery,  nee  Martin,  went  clean  out 
of  my  mind.  I  gave  myself  up  to  the  wild  delight  of  being  for 
the  first  time  in  a  new  and  strange  land. 

Conceive  my  awe  and  delight  at  finding  that  the  whole  place 
was  swarming  with  parrots.  Plundreds  of  little  green  ones,  with 
short  tails,  who  were  amazingly  industrious  and  busy,  and  who 
talked  cheerily  to  one  another  all  the  time ;  others  still  more 
beautiful,  with  long  tails  (shell  parrots,  we  call  them,  but  now  so 
popular  in  London  as  Zebra  parakeets),  who,  crowded  in  long 
rows,  kissed  one  another,  and  wheetled  idiotically ;  larger  and 
more  glorious  ones  yet,  —  green,  orange,  scarlet,  and  blue  (moun- 
tain blues),  —  who  came  driving  swiftly  through  the  forest  in 
flocks,  wdiistling  and  screaming ;  and,  lastly,  gentle  lories,  more 
beautiful  in  color  than  any,  who  sat  on  the  Banksias  like  a  crop 
of  crimson  and  purple  flowers. 

Then  I  made  another  discovery.  I  crossed  the  creek,  and, 
blundering  up  the  other  bank,  struck  my  spurs  deep  into  the  old 
horse's  sides,  and  away  he  went  full  gallop,  and  I  did  not  fall  off. 
As  soon  as  I  recovered  my  presence  of  mind,  by  using  certain 
directions  given  me  by  Erne  and  others,  I  made  the  wonderful 
discovery  that  I  could  stick  on,  and  that  I  rather  liked  it.  I  was 
in  a  colonial-made  saddle,  with  great  pads  in  front  of  the  knee, 
and  I  found  that  by  keeping  my  toes  sliglitly  in,  and  raising  my 
heels,  I  could  sit  as  easily  as  in  a  rocking-chair.  I  assisted  my- 
self with  the  pom  —  our  space  is  limited  —  but  I  was  most  per- 
fectly at  home  after  a  mile,  and  found  it  the  most  delightful  thing 


THE  niLLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  275 

I  had  ever  experiencefl,  to  go  clinrLring  on  ten  miles  fin  hour 
tljroug;h  a  primeval  Ibrest  towards  unknown  surprises  and  un- 
known dangers. 

"Whether  the  old  horse  thought  tliat  my  intoxication  had,  like 
some  recorded  cases  of  hydropliobia,  broken  out  after  a  long  pe- 
riod of  incubation,  or  wdietiicr  he  thought  that  I  was  the  victim 
of  an  acute  attack  of  skyblues  (as  he  would  have  culh'd  the  mal- 
ady known  to  the  faculty  as  delirium  tremens,  could  he  have 
spoken),  I  am  unable  to  say;   but  he  went  like  the  wind. 

The  road  turned  and  wound  about  very  much  among  the  tree 
stems,  but  the  old  horse  took  care  of  me.  I  was  prepared  for 
any  adventure  or  surprise,  from  a  lion  downwards,  when  I  was 
startled  by  the  shrill  cry  of  familiar  voices,  and,  pulling  up,  found 
myself  in  the  bosom  of  my  family. 

There  were  the  dear  old  Chelsea  group,  a  little  older,  sitting 
by  themselves  in  this  strange  forest,  just  as  they  used  to  sit  in 
old  times  in  the  great  old  room  at  home,  —  my  father  and  mother 
on  a  box,  side  by  side,  Emma  and  Martha  on  the  ground,  with  the 
children  grouped  round  them,  and  Joe  leaning  against  a  tree, 
musing,  just  as  he  used  to  lean  against  the  mantel-piece  in  old 
times. 

"  And  poor  Reuben,"  I  thought,  "  where  was  he  ?  "  But  I  said 
nothing.  I  asked  ray  father  how  he  found  himself,  and  my  father 
replied,  "  Bustin' " ;  and  really  the  dear  old  fellow  did  look  most 
remarkably  radiant,  as  did  the  others,  save  Joe  and  Emma. 

"  We  've  been  a  having  such  a  game  a  coming  along,  old  man," 
said  my  father.  "  We  seen  a  alligator  as  hooked  it  up  a  tree ; 
did  n't  us,  Fred  ?  " 

"  And  Harry,  he  's  a  drawed  it  in  his  book  beautiful,"  said  my 
mother  complacently.  "  And  now  he  's  a  drawing  his  own  Jim 
a  horseback,  full  gallop,  as  we  see  you  a  coming  along  just  now. 
And  Frank  has  been  talking  beautiful,  and " 

I  had  dismounted,  and  Tom  Williams  had  kindly  taken  my 
horse  for  me,  and  I  was  looking  over  my  mother's  shoulder  at 
Harry's  drawing  of  the  great  Monitor  lizard  and  my  humble  self, 
rather  uncertain,  I  confess,  which  was  the  lizai-d  and  which  was 
me  ;  but  my  mother  had  succeeded  in  getting  my  head  against  hers, 
and  I  asked  in  a  whisper,  "  How  are  they  ?  " 

'•Joe  's  terrible  low,"  .-aid  my  mother  ;  "  lower  than  ever  I  saw 
liim.  But  Emma 's  keeping  up  noble.  Did  he  send  her  any 
message  ?  " 

"  No.     How  could  he  ?     He  has  got  his  final  answer." 

"  I  wish  he  had  sent  some  message  or  other  to  her,"  said  my 
mother ;  "  for  her  heart 's  a  breaking  for  him,  and  a  few  words 
would  have  been  so  precious.  Could  n't  you,  eh,  Jim,  —  did  n't 
he  say  anything  ?  " 


276  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

I  did  not  wait  for  my  dear  mother  to  propose  point  blank  thai 
we  should  coin  a  messacje  together,  but  I  went  over  and  sat  be- 
side P^rama,  and  took  Fred  on  mj  lap. 

"  Pie  is  gone,"  I  said  in  a  low  voice. 

Tliere  was  only  a  catch  in  her  breath.     She  made  no  answer. 

"  Shall  I  tell  you  his  last  words?  " 

The  poor  girl  only  nodded  her  head. 

"  He  said,  '  Good-bye,  Jim.  Don't  let  her  forget  me.'  And 
no  more  I  will." 

There  was  the  slightest  possible  suspicion  of  scorn  in  the  look 
she  gave  me  as  she  said,  "  Is  that  very  likely  ?  " 

Perhaps  I  was  nettled  ;  perhaps  it  was  only  owing  to  my 
clumsy  eagerness  about  the  matter  which  lay  nearest  to  my 
heart.     I  cannot  decide  which  it  was,  but  I  said,  — 

"  Would  you  not  recall  him  now  if  you  could  ?  " 

She  did  not  answer  in  words,  but  she  turned  and  looked  at 
me ;  and,  when  she  had  caught  my  eye,  she  carried  it  with  hers, 
until  they  rested  on  the  figure  of  poor  Joe,  who  had  sat  down  on 
a  log,  with  his  great  head  buried  in  his  hands.  I  understood 
her,  and  said  no  more,  but  quietly  drew  her  to  me  and  kissed 
her. 

"  If  those  two  obstacles  could  be  removed,"  I  found  myself 
saying  a  dozen  times  that  day,  and  for  many  days. 

We  were  travelling  with  a  caravan  of  bullock  drays,  seven  in 
number,  each  drawn  by  eight  bullocks,  all  the  property  of  our 
friend  the  Hon.  Mr.  Dawson,  which  were  returning  empty  to  one 
of  his  many  stations,  Karra  Karra,  after  taking  to  Palmerston  a 
trifle  of  fourteen  tons  of  fine  merino  wool,  to  swell  his  gigantic 
wealth.  It  was  a  very  pleasant,  lazy  way  of  travelling,  and  I 
think  that,  when  the  long  270  miles  of  it  came  to  an  end,  there 
was  not  one  of  us  who  did  not  wish  that  Ave  could  have  gone  a 
few  miles  further. 

If  the  road  was  smooth,  you  could  sit  on  the  dray.  If  it  was 
rough,  you  could  walk,  and  walk  faster  than  the  dray  went ;  so 
much  faster  that  some  of  us  would  walk  forward  along  the  track, 
which  still  wandered  through  dense  and  magnificent  forest,  as 
much  as  a  mile  or  two,  into  the  unknown  land  before  us ;  and, 
forewarned  of  snakes,  gather  such  flowers  as  we  could  find,  which 
at  this  time  of  year  were  not  many.  We  had  very  few  adven- 
tures. Sometimes  we  would  meet  a  solitary  horseman  ;  some- 
times a  flock  of  two  or  three  thousand  sheep  going  to  market, 
whose  three  shepherds  rode  on  horseback,  and  whose  dogs,  beau- 
tiful Scotch  sheep-dogs,  alert  and  watchful,  but  gasping  with 
thirst,  Avould  find  a  moment  to  come  to  Fred  or  Harry  and  rub 
themselves  against  them  complacently,  and  tell  them  how  hot, 
hot,  hot,  it  was.     Sometimes  again  would  come  a  great  drove  of 


THE   niLLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS.  277 

fnt  cattle,  guided  by  three  or  four  wild-looking  stockmen,  in 
breeches  and  boots,  whlcli  in  this  hot  weather  were  tlie  princi- 
pal part  of  their  clothing,  for  they  had  notliing  else  but  shirts 
witliout  any  buttons,  and  liats  generally  without  any  ribl)ons. 
These  men  were  accompanied  by  horrid  great  dog>,  who  cut 
Fred  and  Harry  dead ;  but  in  spite  of  their  incivility,  their  mas- 
ters were  very  good-humored  and  kind,  kee[)ing  their  cattle 
away  from  us  with  their  terrible  great  stockwhips.  The  head 
stockman  would  always  stay  behind  and  talk  to  us,  —  sometimes 
for  a  long  while,  —  generally  asking  us  questions  about  England, 
—  questions  which  seemed  almost  trivial  to  us.  I  remember  that 
one  wild  handsome  fellow,  who  told  Emma  in  pure  chivalrous  ad- 
miration, that  looking  at  her  was  as  good  as  gathering  cowslips ; 
was  very  anxious,  when  he  heard  we  were  from  Chelsea,  to  find 
out  if  we  had  ever  met  his  mother,  whose  name  was  Brown,  and 
who  lived  at  Putney.  He  was  afraid  something  was  wrong  with 
the  old  lady,  he  said,  for  he  had  n't  heard  from  her  this  ten  years, 
and  then  she  was  seventy-five.  He  would  go  home  some  of  these 
days,  he  added,  and  knock  the  old  girl  up. 

After  a  few  of  these  expeditions,  ahead  of  the  drays,  we  began 
to  take  Trevittick  the  sulky  with  us.  For  Trevittick,  thirsting 
madly  after  knowledge,  in  the  manner  of  his  blue-haired  fellow- 
Phoenicians,  had  spent  more  than  he  could  very"  well  afford  in 
buying  a  book  on  the  colonial  flora.  He  now  began  to  identify 
the  flowers  as  fast  as  we  got  them  ;  and,  as  the  whole  of  us  went 
at  the  novel  amusement  with  a  will,  and  talked  immensely  about 
it  afterwards,  we  attracted  poor  Joe's  attention,  and,  to  my  great 
delight,  he  began  to  join  us,  and  to  enter  somewhat  into  the  pleas- 
ure with  us. 

The  forest  continued  nearly  level ;  the  only  irregularities  were 
the  banks  of  the  creeks  which  we  crossed  at  intervals  of  about 
ten  miles,  —  chains  of  still  ponds  walled  by  dark  shrubs,  shut  in 
on  all  sides  by  the  hot  forest,  so  that  no  breath  of  air  troubled 
their  gleaming  surface.  But,  when  a  hundred  miles  were  gone, 
the  land  began  to  rise  and  roll  into  sharp  ascents  and  descents  ; 
and  one  forenoon  we  came  to  a  steep  and  dangerous  hill.  And, 
while  we  were  going  cautiously  down  through  the  thick  hanging 
trees,  we  heard  the  voice  of  a  great  river  lushing  through  the 
wood  below  us.  As  we  stru^ijled  through  it,  with  the  cattle 
belly-deep  in  the  tuibiil  green  water,  we  had  a  glimpse  riglit  and 
left  of  a  glorious  glen,  high  piled  with  gray  rocks,  with  trees 
hanging  in  every  cranny  and  crag,  and  solemn  pines  which  shot 
their  slender  shafts  aloft,  in  confused  interlacing  groups,  beautiful 
beyond  expression.  Only  for  a  minute  did  we  see  this  divine 
glen  ;  instantly  after,  we  were  struggling  up  the  opposite  cliff',  in 
the  darksome  forest  once  more. 


278  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  Why,"  I  asked  one  of  tlie  bullock  drivers,  who  volunteered 
that  evening  to  show  me  a  place  to  bathe,  "  why  is  the  water  so 
ghastly  cold  ?     I  can  scarcely  swim." 

"  Snow,  mate,  snow.  This  water  was  brought  down  from 
Mount  Poniatowski  by  yesterday's  sun." 

The  next  morning  the  scene  changed  strangely,  and  Trevittick 
walked  like  one  in  a  dream.  As  we  went  up  a  hill  we  saw  the 
light  between  the  tree  stems  at  the  top,  and  the  wind  began  to 
come  more  freshly  to  our  cheeks.  When  we  reached  the  sum- 
mit the  forest  had  come  to  an  end,  and  we  were  looking  over  into 
Flinders  Land. 

A  glorious  country  indeed  ;  sheets  of  high  rolling  down,  and 
vast  stretches  of  table-land,  bounded  by  belts  of  forest,  and  cut 
into  by  deep  glens  everywhere,  —  channels  for  the  snow-water 
from    the    mountains.     Two    o-reat   lakes    gleamed  among:  dark 

o  O  o 

woodlands  at  different  elevations,  and  far  to  the  left  was  a 
glimpse  of  distant  sea.  A  fair,  beautiful,  smiling  land,  and  yet 
one  of  the  most  awful  the  eye  ever  rested  on :  for  there  was  one 
feature  in  it  which  absorbed  all  the  others,  and  made  waving 
wood,  gleaming  lake,  and  flashing  torrent  but  secondary  objects 
for  the  eye  to  rest  on,  —  just  as  the  ribbed  cliffs  of  stone  which 
form  the  nave  of  Winchester,  make  the  chantries  of  Wykeham 
and  Edyngton  appear  like  children's  toys. 

Far  to  the  right,  towering  horrible  and  dark,  rose,  thousands 
of  feet  in  the  air,  high  above  everything,  a  scarped  rampart  of 
dolomite,  as  level  as  a  wall ;  of  a  lurid  gray  color  with  deep 
brown  shadows.  It  dominated  the  lower  country  so  entirely 
that  the  snow  mountains  beyond  were  invisible  for  it,  and  noth- 
ing gave  notice  of  their  presence  but  a  lighter  gleam  in  the  air, 
above  the  dark  wall.  It  stretched  away,  this  wall,  into  the  fur- 
thest distance  the  eye  could  penetrate.  It  had  bays  in  it,  and 
sometimes  horrid  rents,  which  seemed  to  lead  up  into  the  heart 
of  the  mountains,  —  rents  steep  and  abrupt,  ending  soon  and 
suddenly,  —  glens  bounded  with  steep  lawns  of  gleaming  green. 
Sometimes  it  bent  its  level  outline  down,  and  then  from  the  low- 
est point  of  the  dip  streamed  eternally  a  silver  waterfall,  which, 
snow-fed,  waxed  and  waned  as  the  sun  rose  or  fell.  But  there 
hung  the  great  rock  wall,  frowning  over  the  lovely  country  be- 
low ;  like  Pitt's  face  at  the  last ;  reflecting  in  some  sort  of  way 
smiles  of  sunshine  and  froAvns  of  cloud,  yet  bearing  the  ghastly 
look  of  Austerlitz  through  it  all. 

So  for  twelve  days  this  dark  rampart  haunted  us,  and  led  our  eyes 
to  it  at  all  times,  never  allowing  us  to  forget  its  presence.  In 
the  still  cool  night  it  was  black,  in  the  morning  it  was  purple,  at 
noon  it  was  heavy  pearly  gray,  and  at  sunset  gleaming  copper- 
color.     Sometimes,  when  we  were  down  in  a  deep  glen,  or  cross- 


THE  niLLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  279 

ing  some  rushing  river,  we  could  only  catch  a  glimpse  of  the 
level  wall  cutting  the  bright  blue  sky  ;  sometimes,  again,  when 
we  were  aloft  on  a  breezy  down,  the  whole  of  the  great  ram- 
part would  be  in  sight  at  once,  stretching  north  and  south  as  far 
as  the  eye  could  reach  ;  but  for  twelve  days  it  bent  its  ghastly 
frown  upon  us,  until  wo  grew  tired  of  it,  and  wished  it  would 
end. 

At  last  it  ended.  Gradually,  for  three  days,  a  peaked  moun- 
tain grew  upon  our  sight,  until  we  reached  it,  and  began  passing 
over  the  smooth  short  turf  which  formed  its  glacis;  a  mountain 
which  rose  out  of  the  lower  land  in  advance  of,  and  separate 
from,  the  great  wall  which  I  have  been  describing ;  a  mountain 
which  heaved  a  smooth  sharp  cone  aloft  out  of  the  beautiful  slate 
country  through  which  we  had  been  travelling,  and  whose  apex 
pierced  the  heavens  with  one  solitary  needle-like  crag.  It  was 
the  last  remnant  of  the  walls  of  the  old  lava  crater,  of  a  volcano 
which  had  been  in  action  long  after  the  great  cliff,  which  we  had 
watched  so  long,  had  been  scorched  and  ruined  into  its  present 
form.  The  men  called  the  peak  Nicnicabarlah ;  and,  when  we 
had  rounded  the  shoulder  of  it,  we  saw  tliat  our  journey's  end 
was  near ;  for  a  beautiful  fantastic  mountain  range  hurled  itself 
abruptly  into  the  sea  across  our  path,  and  barred  our  further  pro- 
gre-^s,  and  as  soon  as  we  sighted  it  the  men  called  out  at  once, 
'*  There  you  are,  mates  ;  there  is  Cape  Wilberforce  !  " 

"  Cape  Trap,"  growded  Trevittick.  "  I  'm  blowed  if  I  ever 
see  such  a  game  as  tins  here.  There  should  be  something  or 
another  hereabout.  —  Tom  Williams,  don't  be  a  fool,  showing  off 
with  that  horse.  He  ain't  your  'n,  and  you  can't  ride  him ;  so 
don't  rattle  his  legs  to  bits." 

Trevittick  was  always  surly  when  he  was  excited,  and,  to  lead 
away  his  temper  from  Tom,  I  began  asking  questions  of  the 
men. 

"  Where  is  the  town  of  Romilly  ?  " 

"  Down  to  the  left,  between  the  timber  and  the  plain,  along- 
side of  the  Erskine  river ;  the  little  river  Brougham  joins  it  just 
above  the  town.  The  Brougham  rises  in  the  mountains,  and 
comes  down  through  Barker's  Gap.  This  is  Barker's  Gap  we 
are  passing  now,  the  valley  between  Nicnicabarlah  and  the  Cape 
Wilberforce  mountain.  There  was  a  great  fight  with  bush-rang- 
ers hereabouts  a  year  or  two  back,  when  young  Inspector  Plill- 
yar  finished  three  on  'em  single-handed.  He  was  a  sulky, 
ill-conditioned  beast,  but  a  good-plucked  'un.  He  married  IVIiss 
Neville  ;  he  used  to  come  courting  after  her  to  Barker's.  That 's 
Baiker's  down  yonder." 

He  pointed  to  a  cluster  of  gray  roofs  in  a  break  in  the  forest 
down  below,  and  very  soon  after  our  whole  caravan  began  to 


280  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

descend  one  of  the  steep,  rocky  gullies  which  led  from  the  shoul- 
der of  the  volcano  towards  the  sea,  and  very  shortly  came  into 
beautiful  open  forest-country,  with  a  light  sandy  soil,  the  grass 
thin,  but  not  wanting  in  abundance,  and  the  ground  intersected 
by  innumerable  dry  watercourses. 

There  was  a  new  mountain  just  in  this  place  which  attracted 
pur  notice,  —  a  little  mountain,  but  wonderfully  abrupt  and  pic- 
turesque, with  high  castellated  crags.  It  was  such  a  very  lovely 
little  mountain  that  Trevittick,  Tom  Williams,  Joe,  and  I,  started 
off  to  go  a  little  way  up  it. 

A  beautiful  little  mountain ;  tumbled  boulders  round  the  base, 
and  steep  escarpments  of  gray  stone  above,  feathered  with  those 
trees  which  the  colonists  call  cherries,  but  which  we  will  in  future 
call  cypresses,  for  the  sake  of  English  readers.*  Trevittick  got 
on  the  hill  first,  and,  having  taken  up  a  bit  of  rock,  said,  "  Well, 
I  'm  blowed,"  and  seemed  inclined  to  hurl  it  at  Tom  Williams, 
who  was  helping  Joe  to  hunt  a  grasshopper  about  four  inches 
long.  To  save  an  explosion  I  went  up  to  him,  and  he  unbur- 
dened his  heart  to  me. 

"  AYhy,"  he  said,  "  it 's  granite'' 

I  said  I  was  very  glad  to  hear  it,  but  he  turned  on  me  so 
sharply  that  I  was  almost  afraid  I  had  made  a  mistake,  and  that 
I  ought  to  have  said  that  I  had  dreaded  as  much  from  the  first. 
But  after  a  somewhat  contemptuous  glance  at  me,  he  w^ent 
on,  — 

"  Yes,  it 's  granite,  or  the  substitute  for  it  used  in  these  'ere 
parts.  But  it  ain't  felspathic-looking  enough  to  suit  77iy  stomach, 
so  I  don't  deceive  you  nor  no  other  man.  Tom  Williams,  why 
be  you  hunting  locusts  instead  of  noticing  how  the  granite  has 
boiled  up  over  the  clay  slates?  Perhaps  you'd  like  to  see  a 
plague  of  'em ;  though,  for  that  matter,  nine  out  of  the  ten 
plagues  all  at  once  would  n't  astonish  the  cheek  out  of  a  Cock- 
ney, and  the  effect  of  the  plague  of  darkness  would  be  only  tem- 
porary, and  even  that  would  n't  only  make  them  talk  the  faster." 

Trevittick's  ill-humor  showed  me  that  he  was  excited,  although 
I  did  not  in  the  least  know  w^hy,  or  really  care.  I  am  afraid 
that  at  times  I  thought  Trevittick,  with  all  his  knowledge,  little 
better  than  a  queer-tempered  oddity.  Perhaps  what  confirmed 
me  in  this  belief,  just  at  this  time,  was  his  way  of  expounding 
the  Scriptures,  which  he  did  every  Sunday  morning,  as  I  hon- 
estly confess,  to  my  extreme  annoyance.  The  moment  that  man 
got  on  the  subject  of"  religion,  all  his  shrewdness  and  his  clever- 
ness seemed  to  desert  him,  and  he  would  pour  forth,  for  a  whole 
hour,  in  a  sing-song  voice,  a  mass  of  ill-considered  platitudes  on 
the  most  solemn  subjects ;  in  the  which  every  sentence,  almost 

*  Exocarpus  cupressiformis. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  281 

every  word,  was  twisted  round  to  meet  the  lialf-dozen  dogmas 
wliicli  formed  his  creed.  After  his  exposition  of  the  fifty-second 
chapter  of  Isaiah,  Joe  and  I  declined  furtlier  attendance. 

A  pleasant  road,  winding  for  miles  among  gently  inclined  for- 
est gullies,  led  us  to  our  new  home,  and,  while  the  sun  was  still 
alive  in  the  topmost  branches  of  the  majestic  trees,  we  came 
upon  the  inn  where  we  were  to  stay  for  the  present.  There  were 
this  one  inn  and  a  few  other  huts  and  inclosed  paddocks  scat- 
tered in  the  half-cleared  forest  around,  but  the  sounds  of  nature, 
gentle  and  subdued  as  they  were  upon  this  quiet  evening,  far 
overpowered  the  faint  noises  of  human  occupancy.  When  the 
drays  had  gone  on  and  left  us,  and  the  cracking  of  the  last  whip 
had  died  away  in  the  wood,  and  the  last  dog  had  done  barking 
from  some  little  shanty  far  among  the  trees  ;  then  the  air  was 
tilled  with  the  whistling  of  birds,  and  the  gentle  rush  of  the 
evening  breeze  among  the  topmost  boughs ;  for  the  little  river 
Brougham,  which  falls  into  the  larger  Erskine  here,  had  ceased 
to  babble  in  the  drought,  —  was  sleeping  till  the  summer  should 
end. 


CHAPTER    LI. 

CHANGES  IN  THE  ROMILLY  HOME. 

Very  quiet  was  Romilly  in  those  old  days,  —  so  old,  yet  in  re- 
ality so  recent.  Ah  me,  what  a  turn  my  world  has  taken  since  I 
stood  in  the  dusty  road  that  evening,  with  Emma  leaning  on  my 
arm  and  saying,  — 

"  What  a  happy  place,  Jim.  What  a  peaceful  place.  See 
there,  there  is  the  burial-ground  through  the  trees.  I  would 
sooner  be  buried  there  than  at  Chelsea,  —  but  —  it  don't  much 
matter  where,  does  it  ?  What  was  it  Joe  was  reading  to  us  out 
of  the  new  book  ?     Something,  —  and  there  came 

'  And  hands  so  often  clasped  with  mine 
Should  toss  with  tangle  and  with  shells.' 

I  cannot  remember  any  more,  but  it  was  about  hearing  the  feet 
of  those  who  loved  you  pass  over  your  grave." 

]My  father  and  mother  were  two  people  who  carried  home  about 
with  them.  Those  two  people,  sitting  together,  would  have  made 
it  home,  even  on  an  iceberg.  Their  inner  life  was  so  perfectly, 
placidly  good  ;  the  flame  of  their  lives  burnt  so  clearly  and  so 
steadily  that  its  soft  light  was  reflected  on  the  faces  of  all  those 


282  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

who  came  within  its  influence ;  and  such  virtues  as  there  were 
among  those  who  were  familiar  with  them  were  brought  into 
strong  relief,  while  their  vices  retired  into  deep  shadow.  In  a 
few  words,  thej  were  good  people,  and,  like  all  good  people,  to 
some  extent  made  others  good.  Not  only  did  we  of  the  family- 
fall  into  our  quiet  grooves  at  once,  but  this  township  of  Romilly 
began  to  rally  round  my  father  and  mother  before  we  had  been 
established  a  week.  Began  to  call  at  all  hours  and  waste  our 
time,  to  borrow  and  lend  pots  and  kettles ;  to  give,  to  ask,  but  sel- 
dom or  never  to  follow  advice ;  to  go  on,  in  fact,  much  the  same 
as  the  Chelsea  people  had  done,  on  the  other  side  of  the  water. 
After  the  first  week  of  the  establishment  of  our  new  shop,  the 
men  came  and  leant  in  at  the  window,  and  sat  on  the  anvil,  and 
toyed  with  the  hammers,  just  in  the  old  style ;  and,  before  my 
mother  had  been  a  week  in  the  hastily-erected  slab-house,  the 
women  began  to  come  in,  to  flump  down  into  a  seat,  and  to  tell 
her  all  about  it.  People  in  some  ranks  of  life  would  be  surprised 
at  the  facility  with  which  the  lower  classes  recognize  thoroughly 
trustworthy  and  good  people.  My  father  and  mother  not  only 
submitted  to  these  levees,  but  felt  flattered  by  them.  Every 
woman  in  the  township  had  declined  to  know  much  of  Mrs.  Fod- 
der, —  who  was  known  to  have  travelled  for  her  sins,  —  until 
they  "met"  her  at  Mrs.  Burton's,  standing  against  the  fire-place, 
with  her  bare  arms  folded  on  her  bosom,  smoking  a  short  black 
pipe.  Mrs.  Burton  had  "  took  her  up,"  and  that  was  enough. 
Mrs.  Burton  was  so  big,  so  gentle,  and  so  good,  that  even  the  lit- 
tle weasel-faced  Mrs.  Ranee,  with  the  vinegar  temper,  had  noth- 
ing more  to  say.  Again,  my  father  made  no  difierence  between 
Jim  Reilly  and  the  best  of  them.  Jim  Reilly  was  free  to  come 
and  go,  and  get  a  kind  word  at  the  forge ;  and  the  forge  was  neu- 
tral ground,  and  Jim  was  undeniably  good  company ;  and  so  Jim 
was  spoken  to  at  the  forge,  and  if  you  spoke  to  him  at  the  forge 
you  could  not  cut  him  elsewhere.  And  so  it  came  about  that  Jim 
found  himself  in  respectable  company  again,  and  mended  his  ways 
(which  wanted  mending  sadly),  for  very  shame's  sake.  And  in 
time  the  stories  about  Jim's  "  horse-planting  "  propensities  got  for- 
gotten, and. Jim  rode  his  own  horses  only,  and  grew  respectable. 
So  time  began  to  run  smoothly  on  once  more,  and  a  month  be- 
gan to  slip  by  more  rapidly  than  a  week  had  used  to  do  in  more 
unquiet  seasons.  The  week  was  spent  in  those  hapj^y  alterna- 
tions of  labor  and  rest  which  are  only  known  to  the  prosperous 
mechanic,  —  alternate  periods  of  labor,  in  which  the  intellect  is 
half-deadened,  because  instinctive  manual  dexterity  has,  through 
long  practice,  rendered  thought  unnecessary,  and  of  rest,  when 
that  intellect  begins  to  unfold  itself  like  some  polypus,  or  sea 
anemone,  and  cast  its  greedy  arms  abroad  in  all  directions  to 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  283 

seize  and  tuck  headlong  into  its  unsatisfied  stomach  everything 
not  actually  inorganic.  ''  Oh  dura  niessorum  ilia  !  "  Oh  delicious 
unsatisfied  hunger  !  Oh  blessed  intellectual  digestion  !  Did  you 
ever  read  ''Zimmerman  on  Solitude"  and  somebody's  (goodness 
knows  who's  now)  "  History  of  the  United  States"  through  in 
one  week?  I  did.  And  Jim  Williams  lay  in  the  bed  opposite, 
maddened  and  sulky  with  the  few  scraps  I  threw  him  about  Sara- 
to"-a  and  the  Macedonian,  Bunker's  llill  and  the  Shannon  and 
Chesapeake. 

Joe  got  horribly  angry  with  Tom  Williams  and  me  on  the  sub- 
ject of  discursive  reading.  lie  (in  the  heat  of  the  moment,  I 
hope,)  said  one  day  that  he  should  like  to  see  me  wrecked  on  a 
desert  island,  with  a  year's  provisions,  and  nothing  to  read  but 
Gilibon  and  Mosheim.  That,  he  said,  was  the  only  thing  which 
could  happen  to  me  that  would  make  a  man  of  me.  After  dexter- 
ously recalling  a  few  compliments  he  had  paid  to  Mosheim  a  week 
])ast  that  very  day,  in  answer,  I  begged  to  be  allow^ed  his  favorite 
copy  of  Rabelais.  But  he  said  that  Rabelais  would  rise  from  his 
grave  if  he  attempted  any  such  profane  act. 

"  Jim,"  he  went  on,  "  I  am  only  chaffing  ;  you  are  a  better 
scholar  than  I  am.  You  know  men,  and  I  only  know^  works. 
Now  see  how  much  in  earnest  I  am ;  I  am  come  to  you  to  ask 
you  to  decide  a  most  important  affair  for  me,  and  I  bind  myself 
in  honor  to  abide  by  your  decision.  Tom  Williams,  old  fellow, 
would  you  mind  leaving  Jim  and  me  alone  a  little  ?  I  know  you 
won't  be  offended,  Tom." 

Tom  departed,  smiling,  and  then  I  said,  "  Martha,  my  love,  per- 
haps you  had  better  go  and  help  Emma " ;  but  Joe  rose  in  his 
stately  way,  and,  having  taken  her  hand,  kissed  it,  and  led  her  to 
her  seat  again.  The  blacksmith's  hunchbacked  son  had  gradually 
refined  and  developed  himself  into  a  very  good  imitation  of  a  high- 
bred gentleman ;  and  his  courtesy  somehow  reflected  itself  on  the 
pretty  ex-maid-of-all-work,  for  she  merely  smiled  a  pleasant  natu- 
ral smile  on  him,  and  sat  down  again.  What  could  a  duchess 
have  done  more  ?  But  then  courtesy  comes  so  naturally  to  a 
woman. 

"  I  cannot  go  on  with  the  business  in  hand,  my  sweet  sister," 
continued  Joe,  "  unless  you  stay  here  to  protect  me.  You  know 
my  brother's  temper ;  unless  I  had  your  sweet  face  between  me 
and  his  anger,  I  should  not  dare  to  announce  a  resolution  I  have 
taken." 

"  Pray,"  I  said,  "  keep  alive  the  great  family  fiction,  —  tliat,  be- 
cause I  splutter  and  make  a  little  noise  when  I  am  vexed,  there- 
fore I  have  a  worse  temper  than  others ;  pray,  don't  let  that 
fiction  die.  I  should  be  sorry  if  it  did,  for  I  reap  great  advan- 
tage from  it ;  I  always  get  my  own  way,  —  if,  indeed,  that  is  any 


284  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

advantage.  However,  go  on,  Joe  ;  if  your  resolution  was  not  an 
infinitely  foolish  one,  we  should  not  have  had  all  these  words  of 
preparation." 

"  Why,"  said  Joe,  "  that  is  hardly  the  state  of  the  case.  In  the 
first  place,  you  are  not  going  to  have  your  own  way  this  time,  be- 
cause I  am  going  to  have  mine ;  and,  my  will  being  stronger  than 
yours,  you  will  have  the  goodness  to  go  to  the  wall  with  as  little 
noise  as  possible.  In  the  next  place,  my  resolution  is  not  an  infi- 
nitely foolish  one,  but  an  infinitely  wise  one.  The  only  question 
about  it  is.  Shall  I  be  able  to  argue  your  fool's  head  into  a  suffi- 
cient state  of  clearness  to  see  the  wisdom  of  it  ?  " 

Whenever  Joe  and  I  came  to  what  I  vulgarly  called  "  hammer 
and  tongs,"  I  always  yielded.  I  yielded  now  with  perfect  good 
humor,  I  think,  and  laughed ;  though  Joe  was  really  ruffled  for  a 
minute. 

"  The  fact  of  the  matter  is,"  he  said,  "  that  I  have  an  offer  of  a 
place  as  second-master  in  the  Government  School  in  Palmerston ; 
and  I  have  accepted  it.     In  three  years  I  shall  be  inspector."  * 

I  was  really  delighted  at  the  news.  I  had  seen  a  long  time 
that  Joe  had  been  getting  very  discontented  and  impatient  in 
consequence  of  the  commonplace  life  which  we  were  forced  to 
lead.  He  was  "  chafing  under  inaction "  (a  phrase  which  ex- 
presses nothing  save  in  its  second  intention,  but  is  good  enough, 
nevertheless).  I  was  pleased  with  his  news,  but  I  was  very  much 
puzzled  at  the  hesitation  with  which  he  communicated  it. 

I  said,  "  Joe,  I  am  sincerely  glad  to  hear  what  you  tell  me. 
We  shall  miss  you,  my  dear  old  fellow,  but  you  will  never  be 
happy  here.  There  is  no  doubt  that  if  you  once  get  the  thin 
edge  of  the  wedge  in  you  will  make  a  career  for  yourself.  And, 
as  far  as  I  can  see,  you  will  have  a  good  chance  of  getting  the 
thin  edge  of  the  wedge  in  now.  I  don't  like  to  tell  you  how 
glad  I  am,  for  fear  you  should  think  that  I  shall  bear  our  separa- 
tion too  lightly ;  but  I  am  very  glad,  and  so  I  don't  deceive  you." 

"  So  you  should  be,  my  faithful  old  brother.  I  should  soon 
become  a  plague  to  you  here.  But  have  you  no  other  remark 
to  make  about  this  resolution  ?  " 

*'  No.  In  particular,  no.  In  a  general  way  of  speaking,  I  am 
glad  of  it.  With  regard  to  details,  —  now,  have  you  broke  it 
to  father?" 

"No,"  said  Joe,  plumply  ;  "you  must  do  that." 

I  did  n't  see  any  great  difficulty  about  that.  I  was  beginning 
to  say  that  he  would  require  a  regular  fit-out  of  new  clothes, 
and  that  we  could  manage  that  nicely  now,  when  who,  of  all 
people  in  the  world,  should  put  in  her  oar  but  Martha. 

*  The  educfitional  arrangements  in  Cooksland  are  different  from  those  in  any 
of  the  other  colonies. 


THE   HILLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS.  285 

"  I  suppose  you  have  told  Einraa,"  slie  said. 

"  There  !  "  said  Joe.  "  A  woman  against  the  world.  That  is 
the  very  point  I  have  been  driving  at,  and  have  been  afraid  to 
broach." 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  break  it  to  her  ?  "   I  asked. 

"  Break  it  to  her !  Why,  my  dear  brother,  it  is  all  her  doing 
from  beginning  to  end.  She  gave  me  the  first  intimation  that 
the  offer  would  be  made  me,  and  then  quietly  told  that  she  had 
been  in  communication  witli  Miss  Burke  about  it  for  some 
months.  She  began  on  INIiss  Burke.  I  honestly  confess  that  / 
should  never  have  thought  of  debauching  the  leader  of  the  Op- 
position before  I  put  in  my  claim  to  Ministers,  but  she  did.  She 
began  on  Miss  Burke  for  the  mere  sake  of  inducing  her  to  keep 
the  Irish  party  quiet  about  my  appointment ;  in  the  which  phase 
of  her  proceedings  Miss  Burke's  love  for  Lady  Hillyar  was 
her  trump  card,  with  which  card  she  seems  to  have  taken  several 
tricks.  Meanwhile,  only  three  weeks  ago,  finding  that  Miss 
Burke  was  staying  down  here  at  the  Barkers,  she  contrived  an 
interview  with  her ;  and  not  only  did  she  completely  stop  any 
opposition  on  the  part  of  Mr.  O'Ryan,  but  she  actually  per- 
suaded, induced,  bamboozled,  —  I  know  not  what  word  to  use, 
—  Miss  Burke  into  making  the  matter  in  some  sort  a  party 
question.  As  I  stand  here,  Miss  Burke  has  made  Mr.  O'Ryan 
go  to  Mr.  Oxton  and  say  that,  in  case  of  my  appointment  to  the 
inspectorship,  not  a  word,  on  their  sacred  word  of  honor,  either 
next  session  or  any  future  session,  should  pass  the  lips  of  any 
son  of  Erin  on  the  subject  of  the  appointment  of  Billy  Morton 
to  the  harbor-mastership.     And  that 's  your  Emma  !  " 

I  thought  it  was  my  Lesbia  Burke,  too,  but  I  did  n't  say  so. 
And,  indeed,  I  was  too  much  engaged  in  wondering  at  what  Joe 
told  me  about  Emma  to  think  much  about  Lesbia  Burke  just 
now.  I  confess  that  I  was  a  little  amazed  at  this  last  exhibition 
of  cunning  and  courage  in  Emma.  If  I  had  not  repelled  her 
by  a  little  coarseness  of  speech  and  a  little  roughness  of  temper, 
she  would  have  confided  in  me  more,  and  I  should  have  noticed 
the  sudden  development  of  character  which  took  place  in  her 
after  our  troubles,  —  that  sudden  passage  from  girlhood  into 
womanhood.  But,  indeed,  it  was  only  fault  of  manner  on  my 
part.  And  she  loved  rne :  she  loved  me  better  than  all  of  them 
put  together.     Indeed  she  did. 

"  How  do  you  want  me  to  act  in  the  matter,  then  ?  "    I  said. 

"  I  want  you  to  undertake  father  and  mother.  I  want  you  not 
only  to  tell  them  of  my  appointment,  but  also  to  tell  them  this, — 
that  Emma  has  determined,  under  tlieir  approval,  of  course,  to 
come  to  Palmerston,  and  keep  house  for  me." 

I  started  as  he  said  this.     I  was  unprepared  for  it ;  and,  as  I 


286  THE  HILLYARS   AND   THE  BURTONS. 

did  so,  I  felt  a  baud  on  my  shoulder,  and,  turning  round,  T  saw 
that  Emma  was  standing  behind  me. 

"  Emma,"  I  said,  "  are  you  really  going  to  leave  us  ?  " 

She  motioned  me  to  come  out  with  her,  and  we  went  out 
together  and  walked  among  the  trees. 

"  You  are  not  going  to  dissuade  me  from  going,  are  you,  ray 
brother  ?  "  she  said. 

I  was  quite  silent.  She  clasped  her  two  hands  together  over 
my  arm,  and  hurriedly  asked  me  if  T  was  angry. 

"  There  is  never  any  confidence  given  to  me  until  all  the  world 
knows  the  matter,"  I  said ;  "  then,  when  it  is  impossible  to  alter 
matters,  the  affair  is  broken  to  me.  Can  you  wonder  that  I  am 
ruffled  sometimes  ?  I  will  not  be  angry  now,  but  I  will  not  allow 
that  I  have  no  reason." 

"  Only  because  I  did  not  confide  in  you ;  not  because  you  dis- 
aj^prove  of  our  resolution  ?  " 

"  Well,  yes.  I  approve  on  the  whole  of  your  resolution ;  it  is 
natural  that  you  should  be  by  his  side  for  the  present ;  though 
the  time  will  soon  come  when  he  will  not  want  you.  You  will 
be  hardly  ornamental  enough  to  sit  at  a  statesman's  table,  my 
poor,  fat  old  thing." 

Poor  Emma  was  so  glad  to  hear  me  speak  in  my  natural 
tone  that  she  threw  her  arms  round  my  neck.  I  laughed  and 
said,  — 

"  There  is  some  one  who  don't  think  you  a  fat  old  thing,  ain't 
there  ?    When  will  you  go  ?  " 

"  Next  week." 

"  So  soon  ?    Does  Joe  say  it  is  necessary  ?  " 

"  No,"  she  answered  with  some  decision  ;  "  he  does  not  say  it 
is  necessary.  But  I  urged  him  to  go,  and  pointed  out  the  reason, 
and  he  quite  approves  of  my  resolution." 

"  Erne  will  think  it  very  unkind.  It  will  be  so  marked,  to  go 
only  a  day  or  two  before  his  first  visit." 

"  Let  him  think  it  unkind.  I  know  which  is  the  kindest  line 
of  action.  I  shall  go,  Jim.  This  is  a  matter  in  which  I  must 
decide  for  myself.  Why  did  you  start?  Have  you  seen  any- 
thing ?  " 

We  had  wandered  awa;^  along  a  track  in  the  forest  till  we  had 
nearly  come  to  a  dense  clump  of  the  low  tree  called  lightwood 
(sufficiently  like  an  English  bay  tree),  through  which  the  road 
passed.  The  night  was  gathering  fast,  and,  when  we  were  within 
fifty  yards  of  the  dark  place,  my  cousin  Samuel  emerged  from 
the  gloom  and  came  towards  us. 

I  walked  straight  on,  with  Emma  on  my  arm,  intending  to 
pass  him  without  speaking.  I  had  never  spoken  to  him  in 
Palmerston,  and  she  had  never  seen  him  there ;  so  this  was  her 


THE   HILLYARS  AND  THE   BURTONS.  287 

first  meeting  with  him  since  that  dreadful  night  wlien  slie  had 
rescued  Reuben  from  that  den  of  thieves  into  which  he  had 
drawn  him.  I  was  made  anxious  and  angry  by  his  sudden  ap- 
pearance here  in  Roniilly,  and  I  very  much  wished  to  avoid 
having  anything  to  do  with  him. 

Emma,  however,  woukl  not  pass  him  without  a  kind  word, 
and  so  she  stopped  as  he  stood  aside  to  let  us  pass  him,  and 
said,  — 

"  It  is  a  long  while  since  we  met,  cousin.  I  hope  you  have 
been  well  since  I  saw  you." 

"I  have  been  very  well,"  he  answered,  with  a  false  smile 
wreathing  on  his  thin  lips.  "  T  am  very  much  obliged  to  you 
for  speaking  to  me,  for  I  was  anxious  to  see  you,  and  ask  you  a 
question." 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  answer  it,"  she  replied.  "  I  am  your  debtor, 
you  know." 

"  You  are  pleased  to  say  so.  I  will  go  on,  with  your  leave. 
I  am  exceedingly  anxious  and  unhappy  about  my  boy  Reuben." 

"  On  what  grounds  ?  "  said  Emma.  "  He  is  well,  and  is  doing 
very  well.     I  heard  from  him  last  mail." 

"  He  preserves  a  dead  silence  towards  me.  I  never  hear  a 
word  from  him.  I  have  no  answer  to  my  letters.  What  is  the 
meaning  of  this  ?  " 

By  this  time  his  voice  had  risen  to  a  shrill  treble,  and  he  was 
waving  his  arm  up  and  down  threateningly ;  his  pinched  features, 
his  long  nose,  and  his  high  sloping  eyebrows  began  to  form  an 
ensemble  which  looked  uncommonly  vicious.     He  went  on,  — 

"  He  has  been  tampered  with,  his  affections  have  been  alien- 
ated from  me,  and  his  mind  has  been  poisoned  against  me,  by  that 
scoundrel.     How  dares  he  ?     Is  he  mad  ?  " 

I  said  that  none  of  us  had  ever  been  so  wicked  as  to  stand  be- 
tween Reuben  and  his  father. 

"  I  am  not  talking  of  you,  my  lad,"  he  said  in  a  quieter  voice. 
"  You  and  yours  have  always  been  what  is  kind  and  good.  I  am 
speaking  of  a  scoundrel,  a  wretch,  without  decency,  without  grat- 
itude, —  a  monstrous  mass  of  utter  seltishness.  But  let  him  take 
care  !     Let  him  take  care  !  " 

And  so  he  walked  swiftly  away  under  the  darkening  shadows, 
with  his  hand  raised  menacinc]^  over  his  head,  mutterinfr,  "  Let 
him  take  care."  And  it  came  into  my  head  that  if  I  were  the 
gentleman  referred  to  I  most  certainly  would  take  uncommon 
good  care. 

"  It 's  Morton,  the  keeper,  he  is  so  wild  against,"  I  remarked. 
"  I  am  glad  that  there  is  fourteen  or  fifteen  thousand  miles  be- 
tween them." 

''  It  must  be  Morton,"  said  Emma ;  "  otherwise  I  might  think 


288  THE   HILLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS. 

it  was  Sir  Georire.  What  a  strange  thing  this  is,  his  never  com- 
ing near  Stanlake  !     I  wonder  why  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  think,"  I  said,  as  we  turned  homewards,  "  that  Reu- 
ben is  right  in  not  writing  to  his  father.  I  cannot  understand 
it ;  it  is  unHke  Reuben." 

"  I  do  not  understand  it  either,"  said  Emma.  "  I  will  certainly 
mention  it  to  him  the  next  time  I  write.  Poor  old  Reuben !  how 
I  should  like  to  see  him  again  !  How  time  goes  on,  don't  it,  eh  ? 
Jim,  I  want  to  walk  farther  with  you  in  the  dark,  just  one  more 
turn." 

"  Come,"  I  said,  cheerfully.  "  I  could  walk  forever  in  this  de- 
licious owl's-light,  with  you  beside  me." 

"  I  went  on  with  her  gently,  whistling  and  waiting  for  her  to 
begin.     I  was  very  anxious. 

"I  am  going  to  ask  a  half  a  dozen  questions  about  Mr.  Erne 
Hillyar.     Is  he  ever  likely  to  be  rich  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  see  how.  He  gets  some  nominal  salary  where  he 
is,  —  two  hundred  a-year,  I  think ;  and,  when  he  is  out  of  his 
apprenticeship,  I  do  not  see  how  he  is  to  start  on  his  own  account 
without  capital.  His  share  of  the  property  would  certainly  be 
enough  to  make  him  rich  here.  But,  as  I  tell  you,  he  will  die 
sooner  than  claim  it." 

"  A  strange  crotchet.  But  look  here.  He  would  take  it  in  an 
instant  if  a  reconciliation  were  brought  about  between  him  and 
his  brother.     Why  could  not  that  be  done  ?     Think  of  it." 

"  What  is  the  good  ?  Erne  here  in  Australia,  and  Sir  George 
at  Timbuctoo  by  this  time,  for  aught  we  know  !  Nonsense.  There 
are  only  two  obstacles  to  prevent  your  accepting  Erne,  as  you 
well  know,  —  the  care  of  Joe,  and  your  dread  of  lowering  Erne. 
About  the  first  obstacle  I  shall  say  nothing,  but  I  certainly  don't 
want  Erne  to  be  raised  away  above  our  level  once  more,  and  so 
I  tell  you  plainly." 

We  said  no  more,  but  went  silently  in.  I  kissed  her  when  we 
came  to  the  door.  Those  sweet  sister-kisses  were  becoming  pre- 
cious now,  for  was  she  not  going  to  Palmerston  to  keep  house  for 
Joe  ?  and  one  might  not  see  hei  again  ibr  so  long,  —  certainly 
not  till  after  I  was  married.  There  was  between  us  one  deep 
source  of  disagreement.  I  had  set  my  heart  on  her  marrying 
Erne,  and  she  would  have  none  of  it.  But  still  she  was  very, 
very  dear  to  me,  —  dearer  perhaps  and  more  valued  since  that 
cause  of  disagreement  had  arisen  between  us  than  she  had  ever 
been  before. 


THE  IIILLYAKS   AND   THE  BLKTONS.  289 


CHAPTER    LIT. 


FEEDS  THE  BOAR   AT   THE   OLD   FRANK? 

The  pleasant  summer  passed  away,  and  Gerty  found  to  her 
terror  that  the  days  when  she  dared  creep  out  into  the  sun  with 
Baby,  and  warm  herself  under  the  south  wall,  were  become 
fewer;  that  the  cruel  English  winter  w^as  settling  down  once 
more,  and  that  she  and  her  little  one  would  have  to  pass  it  to- 
gether in  the  great  house  alone. 

At  first,  after  George's  departure,  people  continued  to  call ;  but 
Gerty  never  returned  their  visits,  and  before  the  later  nights  of 
September  began  to  grow  warningly  chill,  it  was  understood  that 
Sir  George  was  abroad ;  and  very  soon  afterwards  Lady  Tattle 
found  out  that  Lady  Hillyar  was  mad,  my  dear,  and  that  Sir 
George  had  refused  to  let  her  go  into  an  asylum,  but  had  gen- 
erously given  up  Stanlake  to  her  and  her  keeper.  That  florid 
gray-headed  man  whom  we  saw  driving  with  her  in  Croydon  was 
the  keeper.  Such  stories  did  they  make  about  poor  Gerty  and 
Mr.  Compton ;  which  stories,  combined  with  Gerty's  shyness, 
ended  in  her  being  left  entirely  alone  before  autumn  was  well 
begun. 

Soon  after  Sir  George's  departure  Mr.  Compton  heard  from 
him  on  business,  and  a  very  quiet  business-like  letter  he  wrote. 
He  might  be  a  very  long  time  absent,  he  said,  and  therefore 
wished  these  arrangements  to  be  made.  The  most  valuable  of 
the  bricabrac  was  to  be  moved  from  Grosvenor-place  to  Stan- 
lake  ;  Lady  Hillyar  would  select  what  was  to  be  brought  away, 
and  then  the  house  was  to  be  let  furnished.  The  shooting  on 
the  Wiltshire  and  Somersetshire  estates  was  to  be  let  if  possible. 
The  shootinsr  at  Stanlake  was  not  to  be  let,  but  Morton  was  to 
sell  all  the  game  which  was  not  required  for  the  house  by  Lady 
Hillyar.  Mr.  Compton  would  also  take  what  game  he  liked. 
He  wished  the  rabbits  killed  down :  Farmer  Stubble,  at  White- 
sj)ring,  had  been  complaining.  The  repairs  requested  by  Farmer 
Stubble  were  to  be  done  at  once,  to  the  full  extent  demanded ; 
and  so  on  in  other  instances,  —  yielding  quietly,  and  to  the  full, 
points  he  had  been  fighting  for  for  months.  At  last  he  came  to 
Stanlake.  Stanlake  was  to  be  kept  up  exactly  in  the  usual 
style.  Kot  a  servant  discharged.  Such  horses  as  Lady  Hillyar 
did  not  require  were  to  be  turned  out,  but  none  sold,  and  none 
bought,  except  under  her  ladyship's  directions.  He  had  written 
13  8 


290  THE  HILLYAKS  AND  THE   BURTONS. 

« 

to  Drummonds,  and  Lady  Ilillyar's  cheques  could  be  honored. 
There  was  a  revolution  here,  (Paris,)  but  how  the  dickens  it 
came  about,  he,  although  on  the  spot,  could  n't  make  out.  There 
were  no  buttons  here  such  as  Lady  Ilillyar  wished  for  ;  but,  when 
he  got  to  Vienna,  he  tnight  get  some,  and  would  write  to  her 
from  that  place,  aud  put  her  in  possession  of  facts.  She  might, 
however,  rely  that,  if  money  could  get  them,  she  should  have 
them. 

He  did  not  write  one  word  to  Gerty.  His  old  habits  were 
coming  back  fast,  —  among  others,  that  of  laziness.  Boswell, 
enlarging  on  a  hastily  expressed  opinion  of  Johnson's,  tries  to 
make  out  the  ghastly  doctrine  that  all  men's  evil  habits  return 
to  them  in  later  life.  What  Boswell  says  is,  possibly,  no  mat- 
ter,—  although  he  was  not  half  such  a  fool  as  it  has  pleased  my 
Lord  Macaulay  to  make  him  out ;  yet  there  is  a  horrible  spice  of 
truth  in  this  theory  of  his,  which  makes  it  noticeable.  Whether 
Boswell  was  right  or  not  in  general,  he  would  have  been  right  in 
particular  if  he  had  spoken  of  Sir  George  Hillyar ;  for,  from  the 
moment  he  cut  the  last  little  rope  which  bound  him  to  his  higher 
life,  his  old  habits  began  flocking  back  to  him  like  a  crowd  of 
black  pigeons. 

The  buttons  came  from  Vienna,  and  a  letter.  The  letter  was 
such  a  kind  one  that  she  went  singing  about  the  house  for  several 
days,  and  Mr.  Compton,  coming  down  to  see  her,  was  delighted 
and  surprised  at  the  change  in  her.  After  Sir  George's  depart- 
ure, the  poor  little  woman  had  one  of  her  periodical  attacks  of 
tears,  which  lasted  so  long  that  she  got  quite  silly,  and  Mr. 
Compton  and  the  housekeeper  had  been  afraid  of  her  going 
mad.  But  she  had  no  return  of  tearfulness  after  the  letter  from 
Vienna,  but  set  cheerfully  to  work  to  garrison  her  fortress  against 
the  winter. 

She  would  have  had  a  few  trees  cut  down  for  firewood  in  the 
Australian  manner,  had  not  the  steward  pointed  out  to  her  lady- 
ship the  inutility  and  extravagance  of  such  a  proceeding.  She 
therefore  went  into  coals  to  an  extent  which  paralyzed  the  re- 
sources of  the  coal  merchant,  who  waited  on  her,  and  with  tears 
in  his  eyes  begged  her  not  to  withdraw  her  order,  but  to  give 
him  time ;  that  was  all  he  asked  for,  —  time.  The  next  thing 
she  did  was,  by  Baby's  advice,  to  lay  in  a  large  stock  of  toys, 
and  then,  by  her  own,  an  immense  number  of  cheap  novels. 
And,  when  all  this  was  done,  she  felt  that  she  could  face  the 
winter  pretty  comfortably. 

Stanlake  was  a  great,  solemn,  gray-white  modern  house,  with 
a  broad  flagged  space  all  round,  standing  in  the  centre  of  the 
park,  but  apart  from  any  trees :  the  nearest  elm  being  a  good 
hundred  yards  away,  though  the  trees  closed  in  at  a  little  dis- 


THE   HILLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS.  29  L 

tance  from  the  house,  and  hid  tlic  hmdscnpe.  It  was  a  very 
dreary  place  even  in  summer  ;  in  winter,  still  more  solemn  and 
di'solato.  When  it  had  been  filk'<l  witli  company  there  had  been 
noise  and  bustle  enough  ])erh:ips,  but,  now  that  Gerty  was  left  in 
solitary  state,  silence  seemed  to  settle  down  and  brood  on  it  the 
whole  dav  lonor.  In  the  morninix,  when  the  men  were  washinir 
the  horses,  there  would  be  some  pleasant  stnmds  from  the  stable- 
yard  ;  but,  when  they  had  done,  —  except  when  a  dog  barked 
in  the  distant  kennel,  or  the  rooks  made  a  faint  sound  in  the 
distant  rookery,  —  perfect  stillness  seemed  to  reign  over  every- 
thing. 

Within,  all  was  endless  gallery  opening  into  library,  library 
into  dining-room,  dining-room  into  drawing-room,  till  the  as- 
tonished visitor  found  that  he  had  gone  round  the  house  and 
came  back  to  the  hall  again.  The  drawing-rooms  were  pleasant 
and  light,  the  library  was  dark  and  comfortable,  tlie  dining-room 
was  staidly  convivial :  it  was  merely  a  common-place,  well- 
furnished,  grand  house ;  but  now,  since  Sir  George's  departure, 
since  silence  had  settled  down  in  it,  it  began  to  have  such  a 
ghastly  air  about  it  that  the  servants  generally  came  into  the 
rooms  in  pairs,  and  showed  a  great  tendency  to  sit  together  over 
the  fire  in  the  steward's  room  and  servants'  hall  at  night,  and  not 
move  for  trifles. 

And  the  ghost  which  frightened  them  all  was  no  other  than 
poor  little  Gerty.  They  never  knew  where  they  were  going  to 
find  her.  These  old  staid,  gray-headed  servants  had  always 
thought  her  ladyship  very  queer,  but  now  she  began  to  be  to 
them  what  the  Scotch  call  uncanny.  There  were,  as  the  house- 
keeper would  have  told  you  with  pride,  (as  if  she  had  built  the 
house,)  no  less  than  three  hundred  feet  of  suite  in  the  great  rooms 
which  ran  round  the  house,  and  in  this  suite  there  were  no  less 
than  sixteen  fireplaces.  When  the  first  frost  sent  the  leaves 
fluttering  off  the  elms,  and  rattling  off  the  horse-chestnuts,  Gerty 
had  every  one  of  these  fires  lit  and  carefully  attended  to  all  day. 
It  was  now  that  the  servants,  who  had  always  been  slightly  afraid 
of  her,  began  to  steal  about  the  rooms:  for,  among  all  the  sixteen 
fireplaces,  it  was  impossible  to  say  at  which  a  nervous  middle- 
aged  footman  would  find  her  ladyship  lying  on  lier  back  on  the 
liearth-rug,  and  talking  unutterable  nonsense,  eitiier  to  I)aby,  or, 
what  was  worse,  in  his  unavoidable  absence,  to  herself.  The  ser- 
vants, being  mostly  old,  got  so  many  frights  by  trusting  them- 
selves in  the  great  wilderness  of  furniture,  and  coming  on  Lady 
Ilillyar  in  the  very  place  where  they  would  have  betted  all  they 
had  she  was  n't,  that  it  became  the  custom  to  plead  indisposition 
in  order  to  avoid  going,  and  in  some  cases  to  resort  to  stimulants 
before  going,  into  the  strange  ghostly  region  alone. 


292  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

Sometimes  they  would  hear  her  romping  with  Baby.  Some- 
times her  voice  would  come  from  afar  off,  as  slie  sat  and  sang  at 
the  piano.  As  far  as  they  could  gather,  she  was  never  low- 
spirited  or  dull.  She  read  a  great  deal,  and  used  to  dress  her- 
self very  carefully ;  but,  as  time  went  on,  the  old  housekeeper 
began  to  fancy  that  she  got  a  little  vacant  in  her  answers,  and 
longed  for  spring  to  come  again,  and  for  her  ladyship  to  get  out 
on  the  downs. 

She  had  only  one  visitor,  Mr.  Compton ;  and  he  would  come 
down  sometimes  for  a  night  on  business,  at  wliich  time  she  would 
entertain  him  at  dinner.  She  would  talk  about  George  and  his 
whereabouts,  and  calculate  on  the  period  of  his  return,  strange  to 
say,  with  less  eagerness  as  the  time  went  on.  lier  present  life, 
whatever  its  objections  might  be,  was  at  all  events  peaceful ;  and 
that  was  much,  after  that  dreadful  letter,  the  recollection  of  which 
came  on  her  sometimes  yet  with  a  chill  of  horror.  But  she  was 
gradually  forgetting  that ;  nay,  was  going  a  very  good  way  to 
work  to  forget  a  good  deal  more. 

Baby  was  not  condemned  to  entire  seclusion  with  his  mother. 
He  had  been  ill  once,  and. a  doctor  being  brought  in,  ordered  the 
child  two  hours'  exercise  every  day.  And  so,  every  day,  he  was 
consigned  to  Reuben,  who  led  him  away  on  a  little  pony  through 
all  the  secluded  coverts  where  his  duty  lay,  and,  in  his  pleasant 
way,  introduced  him  to  all  the  wild  wonders  of  the  gamekeeper's 
world. 

The  child  got  very  much  attached  to  Reuben,  as  did  most 
people  ;  and  Gerty  had  such  full  confidence  in  him,  and  the  boy 
grew  so  rosy  and  hale  under  his  care,  and  it  was  so  pleasant  to 
hear  the  boy's  stories  of  his  day's  adventures  at  their  little  tea, 
tliat  she  gave  Reuben  every  liberty  about  hours,  and  Reuben 
himself,  being  fond  of  the  company  of  children,  would  very  often 
keep  the  child  out  late. 

The  winter  dragged  on,  and  Gerty  began  to  anticipate  her  re- 
lease, when,  on  a  wild  March  evening  with  a  lurid  sun-et,  the 
boy  came  home  and  told  his  mother  that  they  had  met  the  devil 
walking  in  a  wood.  That  the  devil  had  been  glad  to  see  Reu- 
ben, and  wished  (as  Baby  believed)  for  Reuben  to  give  him 
(Baby)  to  him  (the  devil).  That  Reuben  had  been  very  much 
frightened  at  first,  but  after  a  time  had  coaxed  the  devil  away, 
and  talked  to  him  in  a  dark  place  among  the  trees  ;  during  which 
time  he  (Bal)y)  had  sat  on  the  })ony  all  alone,  and  let  it  eat 
grass.  Upon  this  Gerty  sat  on  him  like  a  commissioner.  To 
Question,  250,  "  My  gracious  goodness  child,  how  near  were  you 
to  him  ?  "  the  Answer  was  "  Ever  so  far.  Reuben  ran  forward 
wlien  he  saw  him,  to  prevent  his  catching  hold  of  me."  Question 
251,  "Did  you  see  his  face?"     Answer,  "No.     But  I  know  it 


THE  niLLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  293 

was  the  devil."  Question  2r)2,  "Wliy?"  Answer,  "Because 
he  went  on  going  to  and  fro,  like  he  did  in  Job."  Question  2o3, 
"  Had  you  no  other  reason  for  thinking  it  was  the  devil  ?  "  An- 
swer, "  Yes."  Question  254,  "  Wliat  ?  "  Answer,  "  Reuben 
said  it  was."  Question  255,  "  What  did  Reu])en  say  besides,  in 
tlie  name  of  goodness  ?  "  Answer,  "  He  said  that,  if  I  told  you 
a  word  about  it,  the  beadle  would  come  down  the  chimney  at 
twelve  o'clock  at  night,  and  carry  me  off  to  apprentice  me  into 
the  wooden-leg  and  glass-eye  business."  Question  256,  "  How 
do  you  come  to  remember  Reuben's  nonsense  so  well,  you  little 
silly  thing  ?  "  Answer,  "Because  he  kept  on  saying  it  all  the 
way  home."  Question  257,  '•  Why  did  you  tell  me  if  Reuben 
told  you  not  ?  "  Answer,  "  I  don't  know."  Question  258,  "  Do 
you  want  any  more  marmalade  ?  "     Answer,  "  Yes." 

Lady  Hillyar  rang  the  bell,  and  asked  if  Reuben  was  gone. 
It  seemed  he  was  not,  and  it  seemed,  moreover,  that  he  had  dis- 
trusted his  little  friend's  discretion,  for,  on  being  shown  up,  he 
was  in  a  most  perfect  state  of  London  assurance,  ready  for  Gerty 
at  all  points.  Before  the  conversation  could  begin,  it  was  neces- 
sary that  Baby  should  go  to  the  nursery,  and,  as  it  appeared 
(after  a  somewhat  lively  debate,  in  which  Gerty  adduced  the 
fate  of  the  children  wdio  had  called  after  —  or,  as  she  expressed 
it,  "  joed "  —  the  prophet  Elisha,  without  the  slightest  effect) 
that  he  would  not  go  there  unless  Reuben  took  him,  Reuben  had 
to  take  him  accordingly.  After  a  long  absence  he  reappeared, 
and  the  conversation  began. 

"  Well !  if  this  don't  bang  wattle  gum,"  *  began  Gerty,  who 
was  wild  with  curiosity,  and  forgot  her  manners  accordingly,  "  I 
wi>h  I  may  be  buried  in  the  bush  in  a  sheet  of  bark.  Why  I 
feel  all  over  centipedes  and  copper  lizards.  For  you  to  go  and 
see  the  devil  with  that  dear  child,  and  teach  him  not  to  let  his 
mother  know,  and  in  Whitley  Copse  too,  of  all  places,  and  you 

old  enough  to  be  his  father.      You  ouijht  to  be  You 

ought   to   get  Why,   you    ought    to    have    your   grog 

stopped 


"  My  lady,  indeed 


"  No,  I  don't  mean  that.  You  must  n't  be  angry  with  me ; 
I  was  n't  really  in  a  pelter.  You  ain't  going  to  be  cross  with 
me,  are  you,  Reuben  ?  You  did  see  the  devil  now,  did  n't  you  ? 
That  dear  child  would  never  deceive  his  own  mother.  Come,  I 
am  sure  you  did." 

"  I  only  told  him  it  was  the  devil,  my  lady." 

"  Then  who  was  it  ?     It  could  n't  have  been  Black  Joe,  be- 

*  This  is  a  very  low  expression.  If  Mrs.  Oxton  had  been  there  she  never 
wculd  have  dared  to  use  it.  In  the  bush,  when  a  chemist's  shop  is  not  haudy, 
th"^  gum  o'   he  acacia  is  used  instead  of  chalk  mixture. 


294  THE  HILLYARS  AND   THE  BURTONS. 

cause  we  lieard  of  his  being  hung,  soon  after  we  went  into  Cooka- 
laud,  for  putting  a  chest  of  drawers  on  an  old  woman  to  get  her 
money  out  of  her,  though  why  he  couldn't  have  taken  it  out  of 

her  pocket He  was  very  like  the  devil,  my  father  used  to 

sa}',  tliough  I  don't  believe  he  ever  saw  him,  —  the  devil  I  mean  : 
lie  saw  Black  Joe  often  enough,  for  he  was  assigned  to  him ;  and 
I  remember  his  getting  fifty  tor  sauce  one  shearing  time " 

"  It  was  n't  liim,  my  lady,"  said  Reuben,  arresting  the  torrent. 
"  It  was  a  young  man  of  the  name  of  Ned,  that  keeps  a  beer  'us 
in  Old  Gal  Street,  Caledonia  Road.  That's  about  who  it  was, 
my  lady.  A  terrible  chap  to  swear  and  carry  on  in  liis  drink, 
my  lady,  and  I  smelt  him  as  I  was  a-coming  through  the  copse, 
that  he  'd  been  at  it ;  and  I  says,  I  says,  Dash  it  all,  I  says, 
there  '11  be  high  life  below  stairs  with  him  in  about  two  twists  of 
a  iamb's  tail ;  and  I  says  to  the  kid,  —  I  ask  pardon,  the  young 
'un ;  I  ask  pardon  again,  the  young  master,  —  Stay  here,  I  says, 
while  I  go  and  has  it  out  with  him,  for  the  ears  of  the  young,  I 
says,  should  never  be  defiled,  nor  their  morality  contaminated, 
with  none  of  your  Greenwich  Fair,  New  Cut,  Romany  patter. 
And  so  I  goes  to  him,  my  lady."  Reuben,  whose  bark  was  now 
laboring  heavily  in  the  trough  of  a  great  sea  of  fiction,  con- 
tinued, "  I  goes  to  him,  and " 

"I  think  you  were  perfectly  right,  my  dear  Reuben,"  said 
Gerty.  "  I  thank  you  for  your  discretion.  My  father  had  the 
greatest  horror  of  the  same  thing.  None  of  my  sisters  ever  in- 
terchanged words  with  a  hand  in  their  lives.  And,  indeed,  I. 
never  should  have  done  so  ;  only  I  was  let  run  wild  in  conse- 
quence of  mamma's  being  so  busy  getting  my  sisters  off,  and 
jDapa  being  always  in  town  after  that  dreadful  drop  in  tallow, 
which  ultimately  flew  to  his  stomach  at  the  Prince  of  Wales,  and 
took  him  ofi*  like  the  snuff  of  a  candle.     For  my  part " 

Here  Reuben,  who,  having  got  breathing-time,  had  rapidly 
carried  on  his  fiction  in  his  head,  took  it  up  again  :  not  at  the 
point  where  he  had  dropped  it  last,  but  at  the  point  at  which  he 
had  arrived  when  he  found  himself  capable  of  going  in  for  another 
innings.  So  he  began.  Which  left  Gerty  in  the  position  of  the 
reader  of  the  third  volume  of  a  novel,  who  has  had  no  oppor 
tunity  of  reading  the  second. 

"  And  so,  my  lady,  his  aunt  said  that,  with  regard  to  the  five- 
pound  note,  what  could  n't  be  cured  must  be  endured  ;  and  with 
regard  to  the  black-and-tan  terrier  bitch,  what  was  done  could  n't 
be  helped,  though  she  hoped  it  would  n't  happen  again.  And 
they  had  in  the  gallon,  my  lady,  and  then  they  tossed  for  a  go  of 
turps  and  a  hayband,  —  I  ask  your  ladyship's  pardon,  that  means 
a  glass  of  gin  and  a  cigar ;  and  that  is  all  I  know  of  the  matter, 
I  do  assure  you." 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  295 

How  the  conversation  would  have  come  to  an  end,  save  by  the 
sheer  exliaustion  of  botli  parties,  had  not  Baby  reappeared  in 
his  niglit-shirt  to  look  after  Reuben,  we  cannot  say.  It  con-  ' 
cUided,  however  ;  and,  however  much  nonsense  Reuben  may  have 
talked,  he  certainly  gained  his  object,  that  of  mystifying  Gerty, 
and  making  her  forget  the  subject  in  hand.  He  wished  her 
good-niglit  with  a  brazen  front,  and,  having  received  a  kind 
farewell,  departed. 

Now  what  had  happened  was  shortly  this.  That  evening,  as 
lie  had  been  leading  the  child's  pony  through  a  dense  copse.  Sir 
George  Hilly ar  had  stepped  out  from  behind  a  holly,  and  beck- 
oned to  him. 

Reuben  was  very  much  astonished,  for  he  supposed  Sir  George 
to  be  at  Florence,  but  he  let  go  the  pony  and  came  forward  at 
once.  Sir  George  looked  wild,  and,  as  Reuben  thought,  dissi- 
pated ;  he  caught  Reuben's  hand,  and  said,  — 

"  Ha !  One  single  face  left  in  all  the  world,  and  all  the  rest 
chattering  ape-heads.     How  are  you,  my  boy  ?  " 

Reuben  was  well,  and  very  glad  to  see  Sir  George.  "  Lady 
Hilly  ar  would  have  a  pleasant  surprise,"  he  said,  but,  looking  at 
Sir  George's  appearance,  very  much  doubted  it. 

"  She  must  know  nothing.  Not  a  soul  must  know  anything 
but  yourself.     What  child  is  that  ? " 

"  Your  own,  sir  ?  " 

"  Poor  little  thing.     Has  he  recognized  me  ?  " 

"  It  would  be  impossible  at  that  distance." 

"  Meet  me  to-morrow  night,  after  dark,  at  this  address.  I  have 
prowled  all  the  afternoon  to  catch  you,  and  I  must  be  gone.  ]VIind ! 
not  one  word." 

And  so  he  had  gone,  leaving  Reuben  lost  in  wonder.  How- 
ever, his  self-possession  had  prevented  his  betraying  himself  to 
Lady  Hillyar.  And,  when  he  left  her  presence,  he  began  to 
think  of  the  address  Sir  George  had  given  him ;  thinking  proba- 
bly that  it  would  be  at  some  West-end  hotel.  What  was  his 
astonishment  to  find  that  it  was  Lawrence  Street,  Chelsea,  —  a 
strange  place,  indeed,  in  which  to  find  a  baronet. 

He  got  there  a  little  after  dark.  He  found  the  house  at  once, 
of  course,  having  known  every  house  there  from  his  boyhood.  Ifc 
was  a  largish  old  house,  with  bow  windows,  which  might  have 
been  respectable  once,  but  which  was  now  let  out  in  floors  and 
single  rooms  to  poor  people.  Passing  up  the  common  staircase, 
into  the  close  smell  which  there  is  in  all  that  kind  of  houses,  —  a 
smell  which  had  been  familiar  to  him  all  his  youth,  and  yet  which 
seemed  so  repugnant  after  a  year  in  the  sweet  fresh  airs  of  Stan- 
lake,  —  he  went  on  to  the  second  floor ;  and,  before  he  had  time 
to  knock  at  the  door  of  the  front  room,  the  door  opened,  and  Sir 
George  beckoned  him  in. 


296  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BUKTONS. 

"  You  stare  to  find  me  here,  boy,  hey  ?  " 

"  I  thought  you  at  Florence,  sir.  But  I  am  heartily  glad  to 
see  you." 

"  Why  do  you  hesitate  to  call  me  *  father,'  Reuben  ?  " 

"  Indeed,  —  well  then,  '  father,'  —  I  hardly  know.  In  spite  of 
all  the  proofs  you  have  given  me  of  it  from  time  to  time,  —  in 
spite  of  all  your  kindness,  —  it  seems  strange.  Hang  it  all,  sir," 
continued  he,  with  an  air  of  petulance ;  "  a  man  can't  get  used  to 
everything  all  of  a  heap.  And  I  ain't  got  used  to  this  yet.  And, 
what  is  more,  I  must  have  my  time  for  getting  used  to  it.    Now." 

His  true  Londoner's  hatred  for  anything  approaching  sentiment 
made  him  positively  angry  for  a  moment.  But  his  good  humor 
came  back  directly,  and  he  asked  Sir  George  if  he  had  given 
offence. 

"  Offence !  not  the  least.  I  could  have  expected  no  more.  I 
will  make  you  like  me." 

"  I  do  so  already,"  said  Reuben.  "  More  than  you  think  for, 
perhaps ;  but  I  don't  like  talking  about  that  sort  of  thing.  I 
never  knew  a  chap  worth  three  halfpence  who  was." 

"  Well,"  said  Sir  George,  "  I  don't  know  but  what  you  are 
right.  Old  boy,  I  '11  prove  I  care  for  you,  by  deeds,  and  we  will 
talk  no  more  on  the  subject.  I  have  very  little  to  ask  you.  You 
have  kept  me  pretty  well  au  fait  with  matters  at  Stanlake.  Do 
you  know  what  I  have  been  doing  abroad  ?  " 

"  I  do  not,  sir.     Travelling  ?  " 

"  And  you  might  add  gaming  considerably,  and  you  might  add 
winning  considerably.  But  I  have  been  hard  at  work  too.  I 
have  been  hunting  a  wolf,  Reuben." 

"What  wolf,  sir?" 

"  Yes.  An  old  gray  wolf.  I  could  never  come  up  to  him. 
He  travelled  fast,  faster  than  I,  who  had  to  make  inquiries,  could 
follow  him.  But  I  tracked.  Yes,  by  George,  like  an  old  in- 
spector." 

Sir  George  Hillyar  had  risen,  and  was  standing  with  his  back 
to  the  fire,  biting  his  nails  impatiently.  Reuben  sat  in  the  gloom 
and  watched  him  anxiously.  His  face  was  worn  into  deep  lines, 
and  his  old  scowl,  which  was  so  familiar  to  those  who  had  known 
him  in  his  worst  times,  was  strong  upon  his  face  to-night. 

"  I  tracked  him,"  said  he,  speaking  half-absently  to  Reuben, 
"  from  here  to  Paris,  —  to  Geneva,  —  to  Turin,  —  to  Ajaccio. 
What  did  he  want  there,  in  the  name  of  his  master  the  Devil  ? 
And  then  to  Na])les,  and  Malta,  and  at  Malta  I  lost  him,  and  he 
must  have  come  back  to  England.     Have  you  seen  him  ?  " 

He  said  this  suddenly  and  sharply.  Reuben  asked  whom  he 
meant  ? 

"  Why,  Samuel  Burton.  Did  I  not  tell  you  ?  Have  you  seen 
him?" 


THE   niLLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS.  297 

Reuben  said,  "  No,"  but  cunningly  waited  to  hear  more. 
*'  What  might  make  Sir  George  so  anxious  to  find  him  ? "  he 
asked. 

"  Nought  !  A  little  conversation.  A  few  words  in  private. 
Nothing  more." 

He  said  this  so  strangely  that  Reuben  would  not  say  what  was 
on  the  tip  of  his  tongue.  To  wit,  that  Samuel  Burton  was  at  that 
present  moment  in  Australia,  and  that  he  had  in  his  pocket,  at 
that  moment,  a  letter  announcing  his  arrival  there.  Reuben 
thought  that  it  might  be  wise  to  keep  these  two  good  people 
apart.  He  was  confirmed  in  his  resolution  by  all  that  he  saw 
and  heard  that  night. 

Sir  George  kept  liim  there  talking  for  a  long  time.  The  con- 
versation was  all  on  Sir  George's  part,  and  consisted  almost  en- 
tirely of  a  long  diatribe  against  Samuel  Burton :  his  ingratitude, 
his  falseness,  his  villanous,  abominable  ingratitude  over  again, 
until  Reuben  was  prompted  to  ask  suddenly,  "  whether  he  had 
been  up  to  anything  fresh."  Sir  George  said  no,  and  talked 
more  cautiously. 

He  asked  about  Stanlake  ;  about  the  home  farm  ;  about  tbe 
game ;  about  Lady  Hillyar.  Had  she  been  alarmed  at  night  ? 
Had  there  been  any  attempts  at  burglary  ?  —  there  was  a  deal  of 
property  in  the  house.  He  knew  for  certain  that  the  house  had 
been  robbed  once,  and  that  the  thief  had  got  in  through  the  pan- 
try window.  Morton  should  be  told  of  this  ;  Reuben  had  better 
tell  him.  Reuben  had  better  say  that  he  had  received  a  letter 
from  Florence,  and  that  Morton  was  to  sleep  in  the  house,  and 
shoot  any  man  who  attempted  to  break  in  stone-dead.  It  was 
only  justifiable  homicide ;  the  law  would  acquit  him.  Reuben 
had  better  say  nothing  about  it ;  he  did  not  wish  any  one  shot. 
He  was  a  miserable  and  most  unhappy  beggar,  and  wished  he 
was  dead,  and  that  Erne  was  dead,  and  that  they  were  all  dead, 
and  quietly  asleep  in  their  graves.  He  was  not  afraid  of  death, 
he  said,  and  wondered  that  he  was  fool  enough  to  live  on.  If  he 
could  bring  himself  to  believe  in  a  future  state,  of  any  sort  or 
kind,  he  would  blow  out  his  brains  that  night.  But  he  could  n't, 
and  annihilation  was  so  horrible.  He  had  not  been  used  justly. 
He  had  had  no  chance.  He  appealed  to  Reuben.  Reuben  would 
not  stand  there  and  say  that  he  had  ever  had  a  fair  chance,  —  not 
such  a  chance  as  one  "-entleman  would  jnve  another.  The  whole 
state  of  this  world  was  horrible  and  abominable  ;  a  man  was  pre- 
doomed  to  ruin  from  his  cradle.  The  Ultra-Predestinarians  were 
right.  He  would  publicly  declare  for  tliem,  and  declare  himself 
reprobate.  He  would  not  do  it  for  nothing  though ;  if  his  doom 
had  been  sealed  from  the  first  he  would  not  go  quietly  to  his  pun- 
ishment. No.  That  dog  might  be  assured  of  his  talvation,  but 
13* 


298         THE  HILL  YAKS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

he  should  feel  the  horror  of  sudden  death.  He  would  get  face 
to  face  with  that  dog,  and  inflict  on  him  a  few  moments  of  ghastly 
terror. 

And  so  on.  If  any  man  cares,  let  him  follow  out  poor  Sir 
George  Hillyar's  frantic,  illogical  line  of  thouglit.  It  would  be 
very  easy,  but  is  it  worth  while  ? 

Sir  George  had  worked  himself  into  a  state  nearly  frantic,  and 
Reuben  was  sincerely  distressed.  At  last  he  ventured  up  to  him, 
and,  laying  his  hand  on  his  arm,  besought  him  earnestly  to  be 
quieter.  It  had  a  sudden  effect  ;  Sir  George  grew  calmer,  and 
his  rage  died  away  into  low  mutterings. 

Presently  he  told  Reuben  that  he  must  go.  He  cautioned  him 
not  to  mention  his  having  seen  him  to  any  living  soul,  and  so  dis- 
missed him. 

"  I  will  go  and  look  at  the  outside  of  the  old  place,"  said  Reu 
ben  to  himself  as  soon  as  he  was  in  the  street.     "  I  am  fond  of 
it  for  their  sakes.     What  a  kind  lot  they  were  !     I  wonder  what 
they  are  doing  now.     So  it 's  all  broke  off  between  Emma  and 
Mr.  Erne ;  more  the  pity." 

Thinking  in  this  way,  Reuben  passed  through  the  narrow  pas- 
sage by  the  dissenting  chapel,  and  soon  stood  before  the  old  de- 
serted house.  Brown's  Row  was  mainly  gone  to  bed.  Only 
Mr.  Pistol,  who  had  got  off  with  a  twelvemonth,  was  standing 
with  three  or  four  others  under  a  lamp,  and  expressing  his  intention 
of  slitting  a  certain  worthy  magistrate's  throat  from  ear  to  ear. 
But,  hearing  a  base  groveller  of  a  policeman  coming  round  the 
corner,  he  swaggered  off  with  a  dignified  silence  in  the  direction 
of  Church  Street ;  and  the  Row  was  left  in  peace. 

Reuben  was  glad  of  it,  for  he  was  (for  him)  in  a  sentimental 
mood,  and  felt  very  much  inclined  to  stand  and  watch  the  old 
house,  bathed  in  the  light  of  the  early  spring  moon.  He  leant 
in  the  shadow  under  the  pent-house  of  the  Burton's  forge,  and 
watched  the  dear  old  place  with  something  very  like  emotion,' — 
when  all  at  once  Sir  George  Hillyar  came  up,  without  seeing  him, 
and  disappeared  round  the  back  of  the  house. 

Prompted  both  by  curiosity  and  by  reckless  love  of  adventure, 
Reuben  immediately  followed  him.  When  he  got  round  the 
house,  no  one  was  there,  and  it  was  evident  that  Sir  George  had 
got  into  the  yard  by  a  broken  place  in  .the  palings ;  and  Reuben, 
looking  in,  saw  him  enter  the  old  house  by  a  back  window  which 
was  left  unclosed. 

"  Now,  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  and  what  on  earth  is  he 
doing  here  ?  "  tliought  Reuben,  and  immediately  crouched  down 
under  the  window.  He  heard  Sir  George  on  the  stairs ;  and 
quickly,  and  with  the  silence  of  a  cat,  he  followed  him  in  and 
Blipped  off  his  shoes. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND   THE  BURTONS.  299 

lie  found  himself  in  tlic  old  familiar  kitchen,  and  crouched 
down  for  fear  of  Sir  George  ligliting  a  candle.  He  did  not,  how- 
ever, but  passed  out,  and  began  ascending  the  great  staircase. 

What  matle  Keuben  feel  sure  tiiat  he  was  going  up  to  his  old 
room,  —  to  the  room  which  had  been  the  scene  of  so  much  be- 
fore? Reuben  was  puzzled  to  find  a  reason  for  such  a  strange 
proceeding  ;  and  yet  he  was  absolutely  certain  that  he  was  going 
there.  So  certain  that  he  followed  more  rapidly  than  was  quite 
pru<lent. 

The  moon  flooded  the  house,  through  every  available  cranny, 
with  a  dull  weird  light ;  and  Sir  George  was  easily  kept  in  sight. 
It  was  the  more  easy  to  do  it,  as  there  was' a  brisk  wind  abroad, 
which  tilled  the  house  with  rustling  sound,  and  hushed  the  foot- 
steps of  the  follower.  He  passed  on,  higher  and  higher,  till  he 
passed  into  Keuben's  room,  and  disappeared.  Reuben,  waiting  a 
few  minutes,  cautiously  peeped  in  at  the  half-opened  door.  His 
old  bed  stood  there  still ;  it  was  barely  worth  removing  ;  but  there 
were  other  evidences  of  Sir  George  havincr  been  there  before. 
The  bed  was  roughly  covered  with  a  blanket,  —  bed  enough  for 
an  old  Australian ;  and  there  were  other  signs  of  habitation,  in 
the  midst  of  which  sat  Sir  George  at  a  broken  old  table,  with 
his  revolver  lying  before  him.  Reuben  gave  one  look  at  him, 
and  then  stole  silently  away,  his  retreat  being  covered  by  the 
innumerable  mysterious  noises  of  the  deserted  place. 


CHAPTER    LIII. 

JAMES  BURTON'S   STORY:    THE   CLAYTON  MENAGE. 

"  At  last,"  I  cried  out,  as  I  saw  Erne  come  slinging  on  through 
the  forest  towards  me.    "  Why,  I  thought  I  had  lost  you  forever." 

"  Old  boy,  I  am  so  glad  to  see  you.  I  was  determined  to  make 
you  wait  for  letting  Emma  go  away  before  my  appointed  visit. 
You  see  I  have  avenged  myself  on  you  by  keeping  you  waiting 
some  six  months  for  a  sight  of  my  handsome  mug.  It  was  only 
your  wedding  which  brought  me  over  at  last.  And  how  are  you 
all?" 

"  We  were  all  very  well." 

"  You  have  seen  Joe's  Report,"  said  Erne,  "  of  course.  Is  it 
not  masterly  ?  I  am  so  rejoiced ;  but  no  one  ever  doubted  his 
abilities  but  himself.     The  conclusion  pleased  me ;  I  heai-d  the 


800  THE  HILLYARS  AND  TlfE  BURTONS. 

old  fellow's  voice  as  I  read  it,  and  saw  him  emphatically  rolling 
his  head  at  every  period  ;  it  is  so  exactly  like  Joe.  '  Our  tender 
mercies  to  these  people  will  be  found  to  be  but  cruel,  if  we  do 
but  raise  them  out  of  a  sea  of  physical  misery  which  was  over- 
whelming them  in  the  Old  World,  to  plunge  them  into  a  moral  and 
intellectual  one  in  this.  In  examining  the  condition  of  the  class 
of  boys  on  which  you  ordered  me  to  report,  I  found  an  insolent 
ignorance,  a  sullen  impatience  of  control,  which  gave  me  the 
deepest  concern,  and  which  has  settled  forever  in  my  own  mind 
the  question  of  compulsory  education.  Unarmed  with  such  pow- 
ers as  I  should  derive  from  the  prestige  which  is  naturally  the 
right  of  an  officer  appointed  by  Government,  and  by  a  law  ren- 
dering education  compulsory,  I  for  one,  speaking  as  a  school- 
master, would  refuse  to  undertake  the  task  of  training  these  sul- 
len and  ignorant  young  barbarians,  w^ho  in  a  few  years'  time  will 
be  exercising  the  full  privileges  of  citizens.' — I  pause  for  a  reply." 

"  That  last  sentence  ain't  in  it,  is  it  ?  "  I  asked. 

"No,"  said  Erne,  laughing,  "but  it  should  be,  in  the  fitness 
of  things.  The  fault  of  the  Report  is  that  it  is  all  through  too 
much  in  the  '  Romans,  countrymen,  and  lovere '  style.  Joe  is 
uncertain  of  himself,  afraid  of  some  old  lurking  bit  of  slang  or 
vernacular  turning  up  and  undoing  him  when  he  don't  expect  it ; 
and  so  he  wraps  up  all  his  excellent  common  sense  in  fine  words. 
Never  mind ;  the  set  he  is  in  now  will  soon  cure  him  of  that. 
Well,  and  how  is  she  ?  " 

"  Emma  ?  She  is  very  well ;  she  seems  not  to  like  Palmerston. 
Joe  is  never  at  home,  and,  when  he  is,  is  utterly  pre-occupied. 
Since  his  evidence  before  that  commission,  and  the  order  for  him 
to  make  a  special  Report,  he  has  been  utterly  unfit  to  attend  to 
the  slightest  domestic  arrangement.  She  says  he  would  never 
get  fed  if  it  was  n't  for  her." 

"  He  will  be  Secretary  before  he  dies.  What  a  capacity  for 
work  there  is  in  him,  as  well  as  genius.  My  father  used  to  re- 
mark it.     Noble  old  Joe  ! " 

"  And  how  have  you  been,  my  dear  friend  ?  "  I  asked. 

"  I  have  been  well  enough,  Jim.     But  I  am  not  comfortable." 

"No?" 

"  Why,  no.     The  people  I  am  with  don't  suit  me." 

"  The  Claytons." 

"  Yes.  I  like  him  very  well.  He  is  an  honest,  reckless  fel- 
low, a  master  of  his  business.  He  has  a  great  horror  of  a  man 
who  drinks,  or  a  man  who  reads.  — '  I  never  knew  any  good  come 
of  reading,'  he  continually  says ;  '  my  dear  sir,  you  will  never 
succeed  unless  you  give  it  up.  It 's  worse  than  drinking,  in  my 
opinion.'  —  And  he  is  quite  in  earnest.     Ha !  ha ! " 

"  But  about  her ?"  I  asked. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  301 

"  Well,  I  don't  know.  There  's  something  odd  about  her.  A 
Je  ne  sais  quoi,  a  sort  of  Ilaymarket  air  altogether.  But  she  was 
not  so  bad  till  IMi*?.  Quickly  came." 

"  Mrs.  Quickly  !  "  I  cried  out. 

"  Yes.  Oh,  by  the  bye,  she  says  she  knows  all  of  you.  I  for- 
got. Yes,  Mrs.  Quickly  has  come  and  taken  up  her  quarters 
there,  altogether." 

''  "What  does  Clayton  say  to  that  ?  " 

"  Oh,  he  approved  of  it  at  first,  there  being  no  family.  '  You 
see,  sir,'  he  said  to  me,  '  It 's  as  well  to  have  some  company  for 
her.     It  is  very  dull  for  a  woman  in  the  bush  without  childi-en.' " 

'•  Take  care  of  INIrs.  Quickly,  Erne." 

"  Oh,  you  need  n't  caution  me,"  said  Erne,  laughing.  "  /know 
the  cut  of  her  ladyship's  cap.  Unluckily,  Mrs.  Quickly  is  trou- 
bled with  a  sinking  in  her  stomach,  and  requires  stimulants,  which 
has  resulted  in  this,  that  neither  Mrs.  Quickly  nor  Mrs.  Clayton 
are  ever  exactly  sober.  Mrs.  Quickly,  being,  I  suppose,  the  more 
seasoned  vessel,  carries  her  drink  in  a  more  workman-like  manner 
than  Mrs.  Clayton.  When  Mrs.  Quickly  is  sufficiently  intoxi- 
cated to  throw  herself  into  my  arms  and  kiss  me,  you  generally 
find  that  Mrs.  Clayton  has  been  forced  to  go  and  lie  down.  As 
for  old  Parkins,  he  never  gets  drunk.  Drink  what  he  will  it 
makes  no  difference  to  hun" 

"  Does  Clayton  know  of  this  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  he  has  n't  strength  of  mind  to  stop  it  entirely.  He 
is  exceedingly  attached  and  devoted  to  his  wife.  He  says  that, 
as  soon  as  he  can  get  rid  of  Mrs.  Quickly,  it  will  be  all  fight 
again.  She  never  did  it  till  that  woman  came.  But  Mrs.  Quickly 
won't  go.  Parkins  says  she  has  got  the  whip  hand  of  Mrs. 
Clayton,  and  knows  when  she  is  well  off." 

'•  I  dare  say.     But  who  is  Parkins  ?  " 

"  Parkins  ?  Oh,  why  he  is  Parkins.  He  is  a  queer-looking 
card ;  but  very  agreeable,  remakably  well-bred.  He  came  there 
after  Mrs.  Quickly  at  first,  I  believe,  but  took  such  a  fancy  to 
me  that  he  lias  been  there  a  good  deal.  Clayton  says  he  will 
leave  me  his  fortune.  He  is  very  well  off,  looking  for  an  in 
vestment." 

"  I  hope  you  may  be  his  heir." 

''  I  have  very  httle  hope.  Hammersmith ;  for,  however  excel- 
lent his  testamentary  intentions  may  be,  I  doubt  whether  he 
will  have  an  opportunity  of  carrying  them  into  execution  for  the 
next  forty  years.     He  looks  like  a  liver." 

"  Cannot  he  stop  this  miserable  drinking  ?  " 

"  He  does  all  he  can,  to  do  him  justice  ;  but  somehow  he  seems 
afraid  of  Mrs.  Quickly.  The  whole  lot  of  them,  with  the  ex- 
ception of  Clayton,  have  just  the  air  of  people  who  had  made 


302  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

their  fortunes  by  robbing  poor-boxes.  Nice  sort  of  company  for 
a  young  gentleman  of  my  bringing-up :  I  don't  much  care  about 
it  so  long  as  they  don't  kick  up  a  row,  but  I  am  getting  very 
tired  of  it.     I  shall  make  a  bolt  one  of  these  days." 

That  evening  Erne  and  I  took  a  walk  togetlier  up  the  Brougham 
river.  It  is  an  exception  to  the  majority  of  rivers  in  Australia, 
for,  being  snow-fed,  and  coming  to  a  great  extent  through  lime- 
stone, it  keeps  up  a  full  crystal  current  through  the  hottest  sum- 
mer. It  is  the  favorite  resort  of  the  lovers  of  Rorailly  to  this 
day,  for  it  is  so  deeply  embowered  in  fern-tree  and  lightwood 
that  one  may  sit  in  the  shade  and  dream  of  cool  English  w^oods 
in  August :  dream  only  like  her  who 

'*  Woke,  and  the  bubble  of  the  stream 
Fell,  and  without  the  steady  glare." 

But,  however,  fern-trees  and  lightwood  must  do,  where  oak  and 
elm  are  unprocurable. 

The  Brougham  is  popular,  too,  as  a  resort  for  anglers ;  those 
pretty  little  salmonidge,  which  are  so  singularly  like  grayling, 
leaving  the  larger  river,  the  Erskine,  prefer  the  more  aerated 
waters  of  the  Brougham  and  swarm  up  it  in  thousands.  As  we 
passed  along  the  bank  which  wound  up  the  valley  near  the  river, 
we  saw  many  of  our  neighbors  bathing  and  fishing ;  but,  getting 
farther  from  the  town  we  seemed  to  leave  life  behind  us,  and 
began  to  think  we  were  alone  in  the  forest :  when,  coming  to  a 
deep  pool,  in  a  turn  of  the  river,  walled  in  with  dark  shrubs 
and  feathering  tree-ferns,  we  came  on  a  solitary  man,  who  sat  on 
a  log  fishing  by  himself:  on  seeing  whom.  Erne  exclaimed, 
"  Hallo !  why  here  's  Parkins,"  and,  going  up  to  him,  and  having 
affectionately  shaken  hands,  sat  down  and  began  a  conversation. 

Mr.  Parkins  was  affectionately  glad  to  see  Erne,  but  the  prin- 
cipal expression  of  his  face  was  that  of  intense  amusement,  — 
amusement  at  my  expense,  for  I  was  standing  looking  at  him 
and  at  Erne  with  staring  eyes  and  open  mouth.  This  Mr. 
Parkins,  this  new  friend  of  Erne's,  was  no  less  a  person  than  my 
cousin  Samuel. 


THE  niLLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  303 


CHAPTER    LIV. 

EMMA'S  VISIT. 

"  This  is  my  friend  Mr.  Burton,"  said  Erne. 

*'  I  formerly  had  the  acquaintance  of  Mr.  James  Burton,"  said 
Samuel  sarcastically;  "nay,  on  one  occasion  I  took  the  liberty 
of  saving  his  life." 

I  blushed,  and  stammered  out  some  commonplace.  I  was  not 
quite  sure  that  I  had  not  done  a  rather  ill-conditioned  act  in  pass- 
ing him  before  on  many  occasions  without  speaking  to  him.  I 
hoped  he  was  well. 

He  was  quite  satisfied  at  once,  and  began  to  talk  kindly.  He 
congratulated  me  on  my  approaching  marriage  ;  and,  although  he 
must  have  been  considerably  disconcerted  and  annoyed  at  the 
impending  discovery,  by  Erne,  of  the  fact  that  his  refined  friend, 
Mr.  Parkins,  was  identical  with  the  transported  valet  of  his 
brother,  yet  he  never  showed  the  slightest  annoyance  or  vexa- 
tion, but  talked  indifferently  about  his  sport  and  about  the  weather, 
until  we  rose  to  walk  homeward. 

Erne  was  immensely  astonished  when  I  eagerly  announced  the 
fact  to  him ;  but  he  was  quite  as  much  amused  as  surprised. 

" This  completes  the  Clayton  menage"  he  said.  "  What  an 
exceedingly  funny  lot  of  people  we  are !  I  am  charmed  at  this 
discovery.  I  will  pick  Master  Samuel's  brains  no  end  about  his 
convict  experiences.  It  will  determine  me  to  stay  on  with  Clay- 
ton. Fancy  being  on  intimate  terms  with  a  convict.  But  does 
it  not  strike  you  as  curious  that  he  and  I  should  be  accidentally 
thrown  too;ether  ?  " 

"  I  see  nothing  curious  in  it  whatever,"  I  said.  "  It  is  plain  to 
me  that  he  has  found  out  where  you  are,  and,  taking  advantage 
of  this  careless  bush  hos23itality,  has  introduced  himself  into  the 
house  with  you,  for  his  own  purposes.  He  has  intentions  with 
regard  to  you,  but  he  is  far  too  unfathomably  cunning  to  let  you 
know  what  they  are.     He  is  going  to  bid  for  a  farm  here." 

"No;  is  he?" 

"  So  they  say.     He  is  waiting  here  for  the  land  sale." 

"  And  when  is  that  ?  " 

"  Next  week.     My  father  is  going  to  buy  heavily." 

"  I  thought  Dawson  bought  up  everything  hereabout." 

"  He  is  not  going  to  bid  against  my  father." 

"  That  is  a  singular  concession  on  his  part.     He  is  mad  about 


304  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

Port  E-omilly.  I  know  this  for  a  fact :  before  the  last  great  land 
sale  a  man  had  squatted  on  one  of  the  lots,  and  had  made  money 
in  some  way  or  another.  Dawson  went  to  him  and  said,  '  My 
man,  I  understand  you  are  going  to  bid  for  this  lot.'  The  man 
said  yes,  he  was  going  to  run  it  up.  *  You  can  run  it  up  if  you 
like,'  said  Dawson,  '  but,  if  you  do,  you  '11  run  yourself  off  it ;  for 
I'll  have  it  if  it  costs  30,000/.  You  stay  at  home  the  day  of  the 
land-sale,  and  you  may  keep  this  house  over  your  head ;  but  go 
anigh  that  court  that  day,  and  out  of  this  you  go  the  week  after.' 
The  man  wisely  stayed  at  home,  I  believe." 

I  said,  "  Yes,  the  story  is  true.  But  on  my  father's  men- 
tioning his  wish  to  own  land  here,  Mr.  Dawson  immediately  said 
that  he  would  withdraw  from  competing  for  the  lots  which  my 
father  fancied.  And  so  there  is  a  fair  chance  for  him,  though  he 
is  desperately  anxious  about  it." 

"  What  sort  of  land  is  he  going  to  buy  ?  " 

"  A  patch  of  500  acres  on  the  north  slope  of  the  Cape  Wilber- 
force  Mountain,  about  three  miles  from  the  sea.  You  passed  it 
on  the  road  coming  here.  A  mile  back.  There 's  a  burnt  hut 
on  it " 

"  It  is  poor  land." 

"  No,  capital  vine  land,  with  that  aspect."  * 

"  I  wish  him  joy  with  it.  I  cannot  sufficiently  admire  the 
generous  liberality  of  our  honorable  friend  Dawson.  Why,  my 
dear  boy,  that  land  would  starve  a  bandicoot." 

"  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  Why,  innocent !  if  you  will  get  any  bushman  to  tell  you  that 
land  covered  with  Eucalyptus  dumosus,  vulgarly  called  Mallee, 
and  exceedingly  stunted  specimens  of  that,  will  grow  anytliing, 
I  will  tell  him  he  knows  nothing.  Your  father  is,  in  my  opinion, 
ill-advised." 

And  so  the  conversation  dropped.  About  ten  days  after  it  was 
held  I  was  married.  Only  the  very  night  before,  a  steamer  came 
in  from  Palmerston  and  brought  Emma.  She  could  not  help 
coming,  she  said,  and  had  altered  her  mind  the  very  last  thing. 
The  steamers  between  Melbourne  and  Palmerston  would  call 
regularly  at  Port  Romilly  now.  That  was  so  very  nice  to  think 
of,  was  n't  it?  It  made  her  feel  the  separation  less.  Only  three 
days  would  bring  her  among  us  at  any  time,  in  case  of  illness  or 
anything.  And  such  a  beautiful  voyage,  she  said.  The  sky  was 
so  bright,  and  the  great  ocean-roll  so  long  and  so  gentle.  She 
had  sat  on  the  deck  all  day  and  all  night,  watching  the  coast. 
There  had  been  long  stretches  of  low  sand-beach  in  some  places, 
and  then  a  majestic  cape.     Sometimes  the  land  piled  itself  up 

*  A  northerly  aspect  at  the  Antipodes  is  of  course  the  same  as  a  southern 
one  here. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  305 

into  awful  tiers  of  dark  forest,  one  rising  behind  the  other ;  and 
sometimes  these  would  break  away,  and  show  low  rolling  plains 
stretching  into  the  interior,  with  faint  blue  mountains  beyond. 
Tliere  were  ishinds,  too,  which  one  sailed  through,  on  which  the 
foot  of  man  had  never  rested  since  the  world  began  ;  some  low, 
some  high  and  fantastically-shaped,  l)ut  all  covered  with  clouds 
of  changing  sea-birds,  and  ringed  with  the  leaping  silver  surf 
which  never  slept.  "Sometimes,  darling,"  she  continued,  —  for 
we  were  alone  together,  and  the  house  was  all  asleep  save  us 
two,  and  her  head  was  on  my  shoulder,  —  "  Sometimes  I  thought 
that  I  would  pray  that  after  death  my  soul  might  take  (he  form 
of  one  of  those  wild  sea-doves,  and  hover  and  float  in  the  wind 
and  the  sunshine  free  of  care.  I  will  come  and  sit  on  your  shoul- 
der, dear,  and  you  will  know  that  it  is  me,  won't  you  ?  *' 

"  I  would  sooner  have  you  as  you  are,  my  sister." 

"  Jim,  sometimes  I  am  weary  of  my  life.  My  task  is  too  much 
for  me  ;  I  wish  I  was  at  rest.  I  miss  all  the  home  faces.  I  miss 
you,  dear.  I  miss  our  mother,  and  I  am  utterly  alone  in  Pal- 
merston.  And  oh,  brother,  I  love  him  so  dearly  !  This  sight 
of  him  to-day  has  been  so  precious !  Oh !  what  shall  I  do,  what 
shall  I  do?" 

I  did  not  dare  to  ask  her  to  forsjet  her  resolution  now.  This 
was  not  the  time  to  ur^e  Erne's  suit.  Her  mood  was  far  too 
serious  and  sacred  a  one  to  be  interfered  with  by  any  personal 
whim  of  my  own.  Not  only  did  I  feel  this,  but  she  knew  that  I 
felt  it,  and  opened  her  heart  to  me  in  perfect  confidence.  I  only 
told  her  that  I  loved  her  better  than  any  other  woman  in  the 
world,  save  one.  I  only  begged  her  forgiveness  for  any  clumsi- 
ness of  expression,  by  which  I  might  have  hidden  my  love  for 
her.  I  only  comforted  her  with  hopes  such  as  I  could  give. 
Things  might  alter  in  many  ways  ;  and  there  might  be  a  brighter 
future.  After  a  time  she  grew  calm  again,  and  she  sat  with  her 
head  on  my  shoulder  through  the  short  summer  night,  until  the 
crystal  dawn  flashed  upon  the  tree  tops,  and  told  me  that  the 
morning  of  my  marriage  was  come. 

And  in  the  morning  she  and  Erne  parted.  When  will  they 
meet  again  ?     Ah !  when  ? 


306  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 


CHAPTER    LV. 

THE  LAND  SALE. 

My  marriage  was  a  most  unnoticeable  one.  The  sort  of  thing 
that  is  just  worth  mentioning,  nothing  more.  It  has  nothing  to 
do  with  the  story  whatever. 

I  do  not  think  that  I  should  have  taken  the  trouble  to  mention 
it  at  all,  had  it  not  been  for  this.  There  was  a  little  cloud  over 
it,  and  that  cloud  hung  in  the  very  last  place  where  I  liked  to 
see  a  cloud.     It  was  in  my  father's  face. 

He  approved  of  the  business  in  every  way.  We  were  getting 
rich  and  prosperous.  He  loved  my  pretty  little  sweetheart  with 
all  the  chivalrous  devotion  of  his  great  gentleman's  soul ;  but 
there  was  a  cloud  on  his  face,  which  reflected  itself  on  mine.  I 
thought  I  had  penetration  enough  to  find  out  the  cause  which 
threw  its  shadow  there. 

Trevittick  had  been  a  good  and  faithful  partner  to  us,  and,  in 
spite  of  his  moroseness  and  his  fanaticism,  we  had  got  to  be  very 
fond  of  him.  Morose  he  was  at  times,  but  he  was  never  unkind : 
his  devotion  to  my  mother  was  that  of  a  true  gentleman  ;  and  his 
kindness  to  the  younger  ones,  children  no  longer  now,  was  most 
fatherly  and  genial.  Fred,  in  fact,  put  him  as  A  1  in  his  affec- 
tions since  the  loss  of  Erne.  But  now  it  was  painfully  evident 
to  me  that  poor  Trevittick  had  stepped  a  little  beyond  the  limits 
of  fanaticism,  and  was  rapidly  becoming  lunatic.  I  also  per- 
ceived that  my  father  was  perfectly  aware  of  the  fact,  but  would 
not  open  his  lips,  even  to  me,  in  hopes  of  a  favorable  change  in 
the  poor  fellow's  malady. 

This  was  the  reason  of  the  shadow  on  my  father's  face  at  the 
time  of  my  wedding ;  and  I  was  sorry  to  be  obliged  to  confess  to 
myself,  after  close  watching  of  Trevittick's  behavior,  that  there 
was  only  too  good  reason  for  it. 

I  cannot  remember  the  exact  time  when  I  first  noticed  decided 
symptoms  of  his  aberration ;  but  it  was  long  before  my  marriage. 
It  was  a  Sunday,  though,  for  he  had  been  in  the  bush  all  day 
alone :  which  was  a  habit  he  acquired  soon  after  our  arrival  at 
Port  Romilly.  He  had  gained  so  much  influence  over  my  father 
that  my  father  used  to  allow  him  to  expound  a  chapter  and  give 
an  extempore  prayer  the  first  thing  every  Sunday  morning. 
After  this  he  used  to  depart  into  the  bush,  and  only  come  home 
late  at  night,  leaving  my  father  to  blunder  through  the  Litany, 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  307 

and  an  orthodox  sermon  in  the  forenoon,  before  his  family,  as  best 
he  might ;  which  was  not  very  well,  for  my  father's  education  had 
been  limited,  and  the  slowest  of  Bible  clerks  might  have  given 
him  half  the  distance,  and  said  amen  before  him,  easily.  On  this 
particular  Sunday  Trcvittick  was  later  homo  than.  usu;d.  There 
was  no  one  up  but  myself,  and,  when  he  came  in,  having  taken  a 
long  draught  of  cold  tea  (he  was  a  strict  teetotaller)  he  sat  down 
opposite  me,  lit  his  pipe,  and  told  me  that  on  that  very  morning 
he  had  arrived  at  the  unalterable  conviction  that  he  was  con- 
demned to  everlasting  reprobation. 

I  asked  him  why. 

He  said  that  hitherto  he  had  always  believed  himself  convinced 
of  sin,  and  regenerate  ;  that  he  had  believed  himself  possessed  of 
a  lively  faith.  But  that  only  proof  of  a  lively  faith  was  works : 
that  he  believed  with  the  rest  of  the  Brianites  that  the  elect  could 
not  sin,  whereas  he,  ever  since  he  had  come  to  Port  Romilly,  had 
been  a  habitual  Sabbath-breaker ;  that  his  faith,  not  having  re- 
sulted in  w^orks,  was  not  lively  ;  that  therefore  he  was  condemned 
everlastingly.  And  not  only  that ;  he  had  had  a  revelation.  It 
had  come  to  him  as  he  was  sitting  that  very  day  by  the  burnt 
hut.  There  came  a  shiver  of  wind  through  the  shrubs,  and  a 
voice  spoke  in  his  heart  as  it  went  by  and  told  him  this :  —  the 
unmentionable  sin  was  to  believe  yourself  elect  when  you  were 
not  so,  and  he  had  committed  this  sin. 

I  tried  to  combat  all  this  midsummer  madness  as  best  I  might. 
I  spoke  such  platitudes  to  him  as  I  could  lay  hold  of  at  the  time, 
and  my  arrows  were  very  few,  and  drawn  from  all  sorts  of  quiv- 
ers. To  flatter  his  humor,  I  told  him  that  there  was  little  doubt 
but  that  he  had  fallen  away  from  original  righteousness,  as  we  all 
had  done.  I  recommended  him  to  read  "  AVinslow  on  Personal 
Declension  and  Revival,"  a  book  which  I  confessed  I  had  found 
tough  myself,  but  which  would  suit  his  case  exactly.  And  so  I 
went  on,  trying  to  argue  against  a  dull,  settled,  obstinate  fanati- 
cism, until  I  lost  my  temper,  and  told  him  that,  if  there  w^ere  an 
unforgivable  sin,  he  would  find  that  it  consisted  in  doubting  the 
sufficiency  of  the  great  Sacrifice ;  which  was  probably  the  only 
piece  of  good  sense  which  I  uttered  during  the  argument. 

But  it  had  no  effect ;  he  knocked  the  ashes  out  of  his  pipe,  and 
left  me  with  an  expression  of  calm  scorn.  The  next  Sunday  he 
rambled  away  just  the  same  ;  and  I,  sitting  up  for  him  after  every 
one  else  was  gone  to  bed,  had  another  innings  with  him,  in  which 
I  got  completely  worsted. 

He  was  equally  assured  of  his  own  condemnation.  Nothing 
could  ever  shake  that  conviction.  Condemnation  was  to  be 
everlasting ;  no  reasonable  man  could  doubt  that.  But  he  said 
that  he  would  not  condescend  to  allow  this  conviction  to  make  the 


308  THE  HILLYAKS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

very  least  alteration  in  his  morality.  His  life  had  always  been 
blameless  (and,  indeed,  he  was  right),  and  it  should  continue  to 
be  so.  He  would  continue  this  sin  of  Mammon-worship  on  the 
Sabbath,  because  it  would  benefit  others,  and  might  keep  them 
from  temptation.  Otherwise,  he  would  watch  the  uprightness  of 
his  walking  more  closely  than  ever. 

In  ray  desperation  I  asked  him  why  should  he  do  so. 

He  answered  scornfully,  "  Had  I  any  proper  pride  ?  "Was  I 
only  righteous  from  fear  of  punishment  ?  And  suppose  it  came 
into  God's  great  scheme  that  I  should  be  punished  everlastingly, 
either  for  an  example,  or  for  some  deep  hidden  reason,  was  I 
therefore  to  doubt  the  gt)odness  and  justice  of  God?"  I  had 
nothing  to  say,  but  I  felt  inclined  to  say  with  Polonius,  "  If  this 
be  madness,  there  is  method  in  it.'*     But  I  did  n't. 

The  next  phase  of  his  lunacy  —  one  which  had  not,  to  my 
knowledge,  made  its  appearance  before,  but  which  seems  to  me 
to  be  the  somewhat  natural  result  of  the  state  of  mind  which 
I  have  attempted  to  describe  —  was  this  :  He  became  abjectly 
superstitious.  He  began  to  revive  all  the  old  West  country  witch- 
quackeries,  which  his  religion  had  taught  him  to  consider  not 
quackeries,  but  arts  of  the  Devil.  For  instance,  he  got  Fred  to 
hold  a  lot  of  ink  in  his  hand,  under  the  new  moon,  and  look  into 
it,  to  see  what  he  saw.  That  dear  boy  instantly  saw  Guy  Fawkes 
and  the  Devil  walking  arm  in  arm  over  Battersea  Bridge,  which, 
however  interesting  in  a  scientific  point  of  view,  led  to  no  practi- 
cal results ;  and  Fred,  being  naturally  seized  with  a  panic,  made 
himself  all  over  a  gore  of  ink,  as  my  mother  expressed  it,  —  she 
having  stepjDed  in  with  an  absolute  veto  against  the  repetition  of 
any  such  unorthodox  manoeuvres.  I  expected  at  this  time  to  find 
him  using  the  famous  Cornish  superstition  of  the  divining  rod, 
but,  to  my  astonishment,  he  spoke  of  it  with  unutterable  scorn,  as 
a  mere  delusion  of  ignorant  and  unscientific  quacks. 

He  grew  worse,  as  I  said,  just  about  the  time  of  my  marriage ; 
he  would  start  up  in  the  night  and  pray,  and  make  strange  in- 
comprehensible ejaculations.  Tom  Williams  had  often  considera- 
ble difficulty  in  getting  him  quiet  again.  But  the  most  awful 
niofht  he  had  with  him  was  the  night  before  the  land  sale :  it  re- 
acted  on  my  father  so  that  I  was  afraid  he  would  scarcely  get 
through  the  day's  business.  Trevittick  seemed  possessed  of  a 
dumb  devil,  and  spent  the  whole  night  in  walking  silently  up  and 
down,  with  a  short,  snatching  gait,  like  a  tiger  in  its  cage.  Tom 
said  it  was  worse  tlian  any  trick  he  had  played  him,  and  nearly 
scared  him  to  death.  Trevittick  looked  very  ghastly  tlie  morn- 
ing of  the  sale  too ;  the  dark  brown  in  his  complexion  remained, 
but  the  red  was  all  gone,  and  he  looked  more  like  an  unhealthy 
mulatto  than  a  rich-colored  Cornishman. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  309 

Everybody  was  up  early,  witli  a  full  determination  to  make 
holiday  of  it ;  for  land  sales  were  few  and  far  between  in  those 
days ;  and  this  one,  comirfj]^  a  few  days  before  Christmas,  would 
make  a  very  good  starting  point  i'or  the  Cliristmas  saturnalia. 
The  young  men  caught  their  horses,  and  rode  about ;  or,  if  they 
had  no  horses  of  their  own,  borrowed  some  one  else's  :  at  the  same 
time  was  begun  a  long,  objectless,  and  incomprehensible  game  of 
cricket,  in  the  which  a  man,  by  dexterous  manceuvring,  might 
have  sixteen  or  seventeen  innings,  and  which  lasted  from  cock- 
crow till  long  after  curfew.  At  the  same  time,  also,  everybody 
began  to  bathe,  and  kept  on  bathing,  while  they  were  not  riding 
about  or  cricketing,  all  day.  Harry  confided  to  me  that  he  had 
been  "  in  "  eight  times.  At  about  nine  o'clock  the  black  fellows 
arrived,  and  the  dogs  began  barking  "  as  though  there  were  bears 
in  the  town,"  and  barked  on  until  the  black  fellows  left,  late  in 
the  afternoon. 

At  about  ten  the  auctioneer  arrived,  and  with  him  the  Hon. 
Mr.  Dawson.  Soon  after  this  all  the  elders  of  the  township  ad- 
journed into  the  little  court-house  to  look  at  the  plans,  and  I, 
having  been  married  a  week,  felt  several  degrees  more  dignified 
than  the  Governor,  and  took  my  place  among  the  others  with  be- 
comins  sfravitv.  After  some  time  the  court  was  filled,  and  the 
bu>iness  began.  Mr.  Dawson  sat  next  the  auctioneer,  and,  just 
as  he  began  to  speak,  my  cousin,  dressed  in  black,  came  up  and 
thrust  himself  in  among  the  foremost. 

"  Here  's  the  Devil  come  for  old  Jack  Dawson,"  said  some  one 
who  was  standing  in  the  crowd,  and  everybody  laughed,  for  my 
friend's  popularity  was  not  high  in  the  township.  The  auctioneer 
began  :  '•  Silence,  gentlemen,  pray  silence." 

"  Silence  yourself,  you  old  scrubber,"  was  the  polite  rejoinder ; 
the  gentleman  who  spoke  being  slightly  in  liquor.  "  What 's  the 
good  of  such  a  farce  as  this  here  ?  Why,  there  sits  old  Jack 
Dawson,  the  blacksmith,  with  his  pockets  full  of  money,  ready  to 
buy  up  the  whole  boiling,  scot  and  lot ;  while  a  poor  man  can't 
get  a  bit  of  land  to  put  his  foot  on.  He  is  going  to  be  king  at 
Port  Romilly,  mates  ;  and  we  're  to  be  his  humble  servants. 
Blow  that,  I  say." 

There  was  a  murmur  of  discontent  through  the  hall.  I  saw 
Mr.  Dawson  wince ;  for  he  could  not  bear  unpopularity.  The 
first  lot  was  put  up,  —  a  lot  of  twenty  acres,  with  frontage  on  the 
Erskine,  After  a  brisk  competition  it  was  knocked  down  to  my 
cousin  Samuel,  for  the  high  sum  of  ten  pounds  an  acre.  Mr. 
Dawson  did  not  compete. 

Neither  did  he  for  the  next  lot,  or  the  next.  It  was  evident 
that  he  had  been  atfected  by  the  sarcasms  of  the  drunken  man, 
and  the  evident  applause  with  which  they  were  received.     All 


310  THE   HILLYARS  AND   THE   BURTONS. 

the  lots  with  wharfage  along  the  Ersklne  went  without  a  sign 
from  him  :  and  next  the  land  further  back  towards  the  Cape 
Wilherforce  mountain,  was  put  up.  "  Your  father  is  mad,"  Erne 
said  to  me.  "  He  is  letting  his  fortune  slip  away  under  his  eyes  ; 
why  on  earth  don't  he  bid  ?  All  the  best  land  is  going.  Do 
pray  him  to  bid  for  this  she-oak  lot ;  it  's  only  640.  Why,  it 
would  grow  forty  bushels  to  the  acre ;  I  was  over  it  yesterday." 

My  father's  folly  did  seem  to  me  incomprehensible.  I  pushed 
through  to  him,  and  pointed  out  what  Erne  had  said.  He  was 
very  pale  and  anxious  ;  but  all  I  could  get  out  of  him  was,  "  All 
right,  old  man,  leave  it  to  me." 

As  the  sale  went  on  there  was  less  and  less  competition,  as  the 
land  grew  both  poorer  in  quality  from  being  nearer  the  mountain, 
and  being  further  removed  from  the  river  and  the  bay.  Several 
lots  just  under  the  mountain  went  for  the  upset  price  ;  and  at  last 
the  sale  was  nearly  concluded,  and  the  people  began  to  go  out. 
Three  lots  remained  to  be  sold,  and  these  three  comprised  a  large 
portion  of  the  mountain  itself.  As  lot  67  was  mentioned  I  saw 
my  father  and  Mr.  Dawson  exchange  glances,  and  everybody  be- 
gan to  be  funny. 

'  Lot  67,  gentlemen,"  began  the  auctioneer  ;  "  a  most  eligible 
lot,  gentlemen.  If  you  were  to  ask  me  my  opinion,  as  between 
man  and  man,  I  should  say  the  most  eligible  lot  which  I  have 
had  the  honor  of  tempting  you  with  to-day.  Twelve  hundred 
and  eighty  acres,  or  shall  we  say,  two  of  640.  The  soil,  though 
not  fertile,  is  dry,  the  situation  is  elevated,  the  air  invigorating 
and  salubrious,  and  the  scenery  romantic.  On  a  clear  day,  as  I 
am  informed  by  our  venerable  and  respected  harbor-master,  the 
light-house  on  Cape  Pitt  is  distinctly  visible  to  the  naked  eye." 

Somebody  said  that  with  a  glass  you  might  see  old  Jack  Daw- 
son sanding  the  men's  sugar  at  Myrnong,  sixty  miles  off.  This 
unexpected  attack  on  my  unoffending  friend  resulted  in  a  violent 
and  acrimonious  personal  fracas  between  Mr.  Dawson  and  the 
gentleman  who  had  so  rudely  assailed  him,  in  which  several 
joined ;  during  which  the  noble  gentleman  so  far  forgot  himself  in 
the  heat  of  debate  as  to  say,  that,  "  if  he  got  any  more  cheek  from 
him,  or  any  other  carroty-haired,  'possum-headed,  forty-acre,  post 
and  rail  son  of  a  seacook,  he  would  knock  his  head  into  the  sha})e 
of  a  slush-lump  in  about  two  minutes."  Peace  being  restored  in 
about  ten  minutes,  and  the  Hon.  Mr.  Dawson  being  left  in  a  great 
heat,  the  auctioneer  went  on  with  the  description  of  the  lot,  only 
once  interrupted  by  the  Hon.  Mr.  Dawson,  suddenly,  irrelevantly, 
and  gratuitously  informing  the  company,  in  a  loud  and  defiant 
voice,  that  he  would  find  a  young  smith,  not  twenty-one,  who 
should  fight  the  best  man  in  that  room  for  a  hundred  pound  a 
side. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  311 

Much  as  I  was  flattered  by  this  proof  of  my  friend's  con- 
fidence, I  was  gUid  no  one  came  forward.  The  auctioneer  con- 
ckided. 

"Now  whom  can  I  tempt  with  this  lot?  Can  I  tempt  you, 
Mr.  Dawson  ?  " 

"  Yes,  you  can,  sir,"  retorted  the  still  angry  INIr.  Dawson. 
"  And  I  '11  have  this  lot,  sir,  and  my  friend  Mr.  Burton  shall 
have  the  next,  sir,  if  it  cost  fifty  thousand  pound,  sir.  Now. 
And,  if  any  individual  cliooses  to  run  this  lot  up  out  of  spite,  sir, 
whether  that  individual  has  red  hair  or  green  hair,  sir,  I  will 
punch  that  fedividual's  head  immediately  after  the  termination  of 
these  proceedings,  sir,  and  knock  it  against  the  blue  stone  and 
mortar  which  compose  the  walls  of  this  court-house.     Now,  sir." 

However,  nobody,  I  suppose,  caring  to  get  Iws  head  punched 
for  a  whim,  the  lot  was  knocked  down  to  him,  and  immediately 
afterwards  my  father  stepped  forward,  looking  as  white  as  a 
sheet. 

"  Now  we  come  to  lot  68,  commonly  known  by  your  fellow- 
townsmen  as  the  Burnt  Ilut  lot ;  exactly  similar  to  lot  67,  just 
knocked  down  to  the  Hon.  Mr.  Dawson,  as  a  site  for  his  new 
country  house.  Now  who  would  like  to  have  our  honored  legis- 
lative councillor  for  a  neighbor?  What  gentleman  of  fortune 
can  I  tempt  with  this  lot?  The  lot  is  up.  At  one  pound  an 
acre.     Will  any  one  bid  one  pound  an  acre  ?  " 

"  I  will,"  said  my  father,  in  a  queer,  hoarse  voice.  I  saw  that 
he  was  moistening  his  dry  lips  with  his  tongue.  I  began  to  grow 
deeply  interested,  half  frightened. 

"  Going  at  a  pound.  Come,  gentlemen,  if  any  one  is  going  to 
bid,  be  quick.     It  is  the  last  lot." 

There  were  but  few  left:  and  no  one  of  them  spoke.  The 
hammer  came  down,  and  I  saw  Mr.  Dawson  clutch  my  father's 
arm. 

"  The  land  is  yours,  Mr.  Burton.  If  you  '11  be  good  enough 
to  step  up  and  sign,  I  '11  be  able  to  get  on  as  far  as  Stawell  to- 
night. There  is  a  good  deal  of  snow-water  coming  down  the 
Eldon  this  hot  weather,  and  I  don't  like  that  crossing-place  after 
dark." 

Thanks  to  James  Oxton's  excellent  conveyancing  bill,  lands 
with  a  title  direct  from  the  Crown  were  transferred  to  the  pur- 
chaser in  about  ten  minutes.  In  that  time  my  father  was  stand- 
ing outside  the  court-house,  with  his  papers  in  his  hand,  with 
Mr.  Dawson  beside  him. 

"  Where 's  Trevittick  ?  "  almost  whispered  Mr.  Dawson. 

"  Go  seek  him  at  home,  Jim,  and  fetch  him  here,"  said  my 
father  in  the  same  tone. 

I  went  quickly  home  with  a  growing  awe  upon  me.     Every 


312  THE  HILLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS. 

one  was  behaving  so  qiieerly.  IMy  awe  was  not  dissipated  by 
my  finding  Trevittick,  with  his  head  buried  in  the  blankets,  pray- 
ing eagerly  and  rapidly,  and  Tom  Williams  standing  by  as  pale 
as  a  gho.-t. 

"  This  is  the  way  he  has  been  carrying  on  this  last  hour,"  said 
poor  Tom.     "  I  can't  make  nothing  of  him  at  all." 

1  went  up  to  him  and  roused  him.  "  Trevittick,"  I  said, 
"  fjither  has  got  the  bit  of  land  he  wanted." 

lie  jumped  up  and  clutched  me  by  both  arms.  "  Jim,"  he 
said,  "  if  you  're  lying If  you  're  lying If  you  're 

lying " 

We  walked  out  and  joined  the  two  others,  and  all  walked 
away  towards  the  hill  in  silence.  The  boys  were  bathing,  the 
cricketers  were  shouting,  and  the  quaint-scattered  village  bore  a 
holiday  look.  The  neighbors  were  all  sitting  out  at  their  doors, 
and  greeted  us  as  we  went  by :  but  yet  everything  seemed 
changed  to  me  since  the  morning.  I  almost  dreaded  what  was 
to  come,  and  it  seems  to  me  now  that  it  all  happened  instantane- 
ously. 

We  crossed  the  low  lying  lands  which  had  been  sold  that  day, 
and  came  to  our  own,  — a  desolate,  unpromising  tract,  stretching 
up  the  side  of  the  mountain  which  formed  Cape  Wilberforce, 
about  three  miles  from  the  sea.  The  land  bought  by  Mr.  Daw- 
son was  similar  to  our  own,  separated  from  it  by  a  rib  of  trap 
rock  ;  both  lots  were  just  as  Erne  described  them,  but  ours  was 
rather  the  rockier  of  the  two. 

It  was  soon  over.  Trevittick  took  a  hammer  and  some  gads 
from  behind  a  rock,  and,  going  up  to  a  low  ledge,  set  them  in, 
and  began  working  furiously.  Once  he  struck  aside  and  hit  the 
rock,  and  the  rock,  instead  of  clinking,  gave  forth  a  dull  thud. 
In  a  few  minutes  Trevittick  had  succeeded  in  detaching  a  piece 
about  two  feet  square,  the  broken  side  of  which  shone  strangely 
in  the  sun.     It  was  a  mass  of  solid,  gleaming,  virgin  copper. 

The  murder  was  out  now.  With  the  exception  of  one  on 
Lake  Superior,  and  one  in  South  Australia,  my  father  was  the 
proprietor  of  the  richest  copper  mine  in  the  world. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  TUE  BURTONS.  S13 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

THE   BURNT   HUT   COMPANY. 

The  following  are  some  extracts  from  the  leader  of  the  Palm- 
er ston  Sentinel  a  short  time  after  the  aflfair  of  the  sale  :  — 

"  Athennsiis,  in  his  '  Deipnosophists,'  tells  us  that  the  ancient 
Carians  used,  at  the  annual  festivals  of  Venus,  to  crown  with  rose- 
mary the  luckiest  man  of  his  year  in  front  of  the  principal  temple. 
For  public  ceremonies  of  this  kind  we  are  not  wholly  unprovided. 
Rome  had  her  Forum,  Athens  her  Areopagus,  Corinth  her  Sisi- 
pheum ;  so  Palmerston  has  her  Government  Block.  Let  Mr. 
James  Burton,  the  Port  Romilly  blacksmith,  be  carried  up  there ; 
let  him  be  crowned  with  a  wreath  of  Kennedya  ;  for  assuredly 
such  fortunes  as  his,  scarce  ever  befell  one  of  the  Audax  lapeti 
genus  before.  A  discovery  has  transpired,  in  the  fertile  and  salu- 
brious district  of  Port  Romilly,  wdiich  promises  to  elevate  Palm- 
erston into  one  of  the  principal  commercial  emporiums  of  the 
ci%'ilized  globe.  The  bullock's-hide  of  Dido  which  first  traced 
tlie  walls  of  the  future  Carthage  will  in  future  go  down  to  pos- 
terity with  the  theodolite  of  Captain  Snig,  the  gallant  and  intel- 
ligent engineer  ofiicer  who  first  traced  the  streets  of  Palmerston  ; 
and  the  venerable  and  vivacious  statesman  whose  name  it  bears 
must  be  content  to  share  futurity  with  the  city  to  which  he  stood 
in  loco  parentis.  '  Oh,  si  angulus  iste  ! '  have  we  been  exclaim- 
ing, ever  since  the  foundation  of  the  colony.  We  have  been 
blessed  with  fertile  lands,  with  full-fed  rivers,  with  boundless  for- 
ests, with  numberless  flocks  and  herds.  We  have  made  a  mate- 
rial progress  greater  than  that  of  any  nation  in  ancient  or  modern 
times.  One  thino;  had  been  denied  to  us.  One  thinof  made  us 
jealous  of  South  Australia,  to  which  colony  we  are  in  all  other 
respects,  physical  and  moral,  so  vastly  superior.  We  wanted 
mineral  wealth,  —  and  we  have  got  it.  Yes.  It  may  be  at- 
tempted to  be  denied,  but  it  is  true.  A  Cornish  miner,  named 
Trevittick,  has  discovered  that  the  whole  of  tiie  Cape  Wilber- 
force  mountain  is  in  an  eminent  degree  cupriferous.  In  Burnt 
Hut  Gully,  purchased  last  week  for  twelve  hundred  and  eiglity 
pounds  by  Mr.  James  Burton,  an  enormous  outcrop  of  pure 
metal  itself  takes  place,  similar  to  those  on  Lake  Superior.  On 
the  next  lot,  Morepark  Gully,  bought  at  the  same  time,  for  the 
same  price,  by  the  Hon.  Mr.  Dawson,  a  small  quarry,  which  has 
14 


314  THE  IIILLYARS  AND   THE  BURTONS. 

been  opened,  exhibits  a  mass  of  blue  and  green  carbonates,  eigh- 
teen feet  thick.  Negotiations  are  being  attempted  to  be  gone 
into  for  the  purchase  of  Mr.  Burton's  claims,  and  his  payment  in 
shares,  but  without  success  hitherto.  Mr.  Trevittick  cousidei*s 
that,  as  soon  as  he  can  get  to  work,  he  will  raise  a  matter  of  four 
thousand  tons  of  ore,  of  one  kind  and  another,  the  first  year." 

So  said  the  Sentinel.  Mr.  O'Callaghan  of  the  Mohawk  knew 
that  the  Sentinel  would  have  a  lot  of  classical  allusions,  and  de- 
termined to  have  a  bit  of  Latin  of  his  own ;  but  his  first  classi- 
cal gentleman  had  gone  to  cricket-match,  and  so  he  had  to  do  it 
himself,  which  was  exceedingly  awkward.  However,  he  came 
of  one  of  the  bravest  families  of  the  bravest  nation  in  the 
world,  and,  on  the  Galway  fox-hunting  rule  of  "  either  over  it  or 
through  it,"  went  at  it  manfully,  seeing  the  hateful  Mr.  Dawson 
beyond,  and  savagely  thirsting  for  his  blood.  His  style,  the  in- 
telligent reader  will  observe,  if  it  is  without  the  polish  of  that  of 
Mr.  Dickson  of  the  Sentinel,  is  not  wanting  in  a  certain  vigor  of 
its  own,  — 

"  '  Diabolus  aurat  propriis,'  says  the  blessed  St.  Columb,  in 
his  '  Hours  and  Meditations,'  —  '  Sus  tranquillus  bibit  lactem,' 
our  venerable  Malachi  used  to  observe,  giving  a  wicked  wink 
with  the  eye  of  him  the  while,  in  sly  allusion  to  Brian  the 
Mighty  himself.  Old  Jack  Dawson,  the  blacksmith,  is  in  luck 
again,  and,  by  means  of  a  rather  nastier  job  than  usual,  he 
has  doubled,  nay  quadrupled,  his  hitherto  enormous  wealth. 

"  It  appears  that  Dawson's  time,  during  his  late  visit  to  Eng- 
land, was  passed,  while  not  at  Buckingham  Palace,  or  elsewhere, 
in  the  smiddy  of  a  somewhat  blockish  blacksmith,  who  has  been 
unfortunate  in  business,  and  with  whom  Dawson  discovered  an  in- 
finite fund  of  fellow-feeling.  This  man  and  his  family  came  out 
in  the  same  ship  with  him ;  he  was  a  great  deal  in  their  company 
at  Palmerstou,  and  finally  he  established  them  in  business  at 
Port  Romilly,  a  place  at  which  he  had  bought  up  every  avail- 
able acre  of  land,  in  anticipation  of  what  has  happened. 

"  He  had  bought  up  every  piece  of  land  but  the  right  one,  it 
appears.  The  smith  Burton  made  the  discovery,  and  deter- 
mined on  his  plan  for  swindling  the  colony,  and,  in  gratitude  for 
favors  received,  offered  Dawson  half  the  plunder.  Dawson, 
with  true  squatter  meanness,  accepted  it. 

"  The  short  and  the  long  of  it  is,  that  this  man  has  discovered 
in  Port  Romilly  a  mountain,  calculated  to  be  sixteen  times  as 
big  as  Slieve  Donad,  and  fourteen  times  as  ugly  as  the  Prot- 
estant cathedral,  of  solid  copper  from  top  to  bottom,  and  he  and 
old  Dawson  have  bought  the  whole  thin<j:  for  an  old  song.     The 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  315 

affair  is  about  as  ugly  a  looking  thing  as  we  have  seen  for  a  long 
time,  and,  if  we  mistake  not,  Dawson  will  be  called  on,  in  his 
place  in  the  Uiiper  House,  to  give  certain  personal  explanations ; 
but,  nevertheless,  there  are  some  considerations  of  a  pleasant 
nature  associated  with  it.  In  future,  not  only  shall  we  supply 
the  manufacturers  of  Yorkshire  with  the  fleecy  spoils  of  the 
merino  of  Spain,  or  even,  in  time,  the  yet  more  priceless  wools 
sheared  from  the  back  of  the  llama  of  Thibet,  but  the  copper- 
smelting  trade  of  South  Wales  will  receive  a  new  impetus  by 
our  enormous  exports  of  copper,  and  London  may  yet  see  with 
envy,  Swansea,  a  mightier  metropolis  than  herself,  arise  on  the 
shores  of  the  Bristol  Channel,  —  a  metropolis  nearer  to,  and 
more  influenced  by,  the  irradiating  centre  of  human  thought  at 
Dublin." 

Mr.  O'Ryan  was  terribly  angry  at  this  article.  He  swore 
that,  if  O'Callaghan  ever  dared  to  write  another  article  without 
having  it  looked  over  by  a  competent  authority,  he  would  start 
another  Radical  paper  himself.  Words  passed  between  the  two 
gentlemen,  and,  if  it  had  not  been  for  Miss  Burke,  they  would 
have  fought  what  O'Callaghan  called  a  "jule"  about  it.  The 
Sentinel  got  hold  of  the  ''  llama  of  Thibet,"  and  made  great  fim 
of  it,  and  the  Mohawh  was  getting  the  worst  of  the  fight,  when 
the  eagle  eye  of  Mr.  O'Ryan  caught  the  quotation  from  Athe- 
n£eus  about  the  ancient  Carians,  and  the  more  he  looked  at  it  the 
less  he  liked  it.  There  might  have  been  a  building  at  Corinth 
recently  disinterred,  but  he  thought  the  quotation  from  Athenasus 
was  the  weak  place  after  all.  He  had  the  gravest  scholastic 
suspicion  of  it.  The  Sisipheum  at  Corinth  looked  queer,  very 
queer,  although  he  knew  that  that  gentleman  was  connected  with 
the  town,  but  this  looked  queerer  still.  The  question  was,  was 
there  such  a  thing  as  an  Athenoeus  in  the  colony  ?  The  Roman 
Catholic  bishop,  on  being  appealed  to,  had  not  one,  but  he  was 
good  enough  to  step  round  to  his  Anglican  brother,  who,  to  his 
great  delight,  had  one.  O'Ryan  carried  it  off  to  the  Muhawh 
othce  in  triumph.  By  three  o'clock  in  the  morning  tlie  first  clas- 
sical gentleman  was  in  a  position  to  report  that  there  was  no 
such  })assage  whatever  in  the  whole  book.  The  next  moment 
O'Callaghan  hurriedly  drained  a  tumbler  of  wiiisky  -  punch, 
seized  his  pen,  and  rushed  to  his  desk  with  a  snarl  like  an  angry 
tiger.  By  daybreak  he  had  sent  his  copy  down  stairs,  and  had 
walked  out  into  the  fresh  morning  air.  The  most  polite  term 
applied  to  the  quotation  from  Athenaius  was  "  scoundrelly  for- 
gery"; anil  the  quarrel  between  tlie  two  pa[)ers  continued  for  a 
long  while,  until,  in  fact,  something  happened  which  gave  the 
colony  something  else  to  think  of  with  a  vengeance.     It  was 


316  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

the  discovery  of  gold  in  New  South  Wales.  But  we  shall  have 
occasion  to  discourse  of  this  presently. 

The  real  truth  about  the  discovery  of  the  Burnt  Hut  copper- 
mine  can  be  told  very  shortly.  It  was  Trevittick's  doing  from 
beginning  to  end.  He  had  been  brought  up  a  miner,  or  rather  a 
mining-blacksmith.  His  father  had  been  captain  of  a  mine  ;  and 
mining  details,  and  mining  speculations,  had  been  familiar  to  him 
from  his  youth.  In  addition  to  this  he  had  acquired,  what  his 
father  possibly  had  not,  a  tolerable  working  knowledge  of  geolo- 
gy ;  and,  having  got  himself  up  in  that  science  and  in  working 
mechanics,  not  to  mention  a  little  mathematics,  he,  by  way  of 
bringing  his  science  to  bear,  came  to  London  —  and  shoed  omni- 
bus horses.  By  the  curious  accident  of  the  man's  getting  so  far 
attached  to  us  as  to  follow  us  to  Australia,  his  knowledge  was 
brought  to  bear  in  a  most  singular  way.  At  the  first  glimpse  of 
the  dolomite  wall,  he  tells  me,  he  began  to  get  restless,  and  then 
(not  to  be  tedious)  he  noticed  the  i'act  tliat  all  the  various  for- 
mations tended  towards  one  point,  Cape  Wilberforce,  and,  when 
he  neared  that,  he  saw  that  it  was  nothing  more  than  a  great 
trap-dyke.  After  this,  he  says,  if  he  had  found  a  mountain  of 
solid  gold,  he  would  not  have  been  surprised. 

Trevittick  had  a  poor  nose  for  gold.  Those  who  have  been 
in  at  the  most  glorious  sport  in  the  world,  —  gold-hunting,  — 
may  laugh  at  him.  But  he  had  a  nose  like  a  beagle  for  metals 
of  some  sort  or  another.  He  would  have  died  sooner  than  break 
into  a  day's  work ;  and  hence  came  his  Sunday  rambles,  and  the 
self-accusatory  frame  of  mind  which  I  described  in  the  last 
chapter,  and  which  I  at  the  time  mistook  for  madness.  Most 
people  who  have  any  brains,  any  power  of  original  thouglit  what- 
ever, get  more  or  less  perplexed  and  illogical  when  the  necessity 
comes  upon  them  for  breaking  through  old  settled  rules,  hitherto 
considered  as  necessary  to  the  scheme  of  the  universe.  I  re- 
member well  the  annoyance,  vexation,  and  sulkiness,  produced 
on  a  young  Oxford  gentleman  who  came  to  us  at  Port  Romilly, 
by  the  loss  of  an  irreplaceable  tooth-brush  in  the  bush.  He 
went  so  far  as  to  refuse  his  breakfast.  (He  got  over  it  by  din- 
ner-time, but  he  was  a  man  of  singular  strength  of  character.) 
Now,  if  a  highly-educated  Oxford  gentleman  finds  his  balance  so 
far  disturbed  by  the  loss  of  his  tooth-brush,  and  by  the  utter  im- 
possibihty  (he  not  being  a  Frenchman)  of  using  anybody  else's, 
how  can  we  wonder  at  Trevittick,  the  first  article  of  whose  creed 
was  a  strict  observance  of  what  he  chose  to  call  the  Sunday  and 
Sabbath,  being  thrown  off  his  balance  by  his  being  forced  into  a 
desecration  of  that  sacred  day  ? 

He  says  that  he  was  a  long  while  before  he  got  any  indica- 
tions whatever  of  either  copper  or  lead.     He  was  afraid  to  dig, 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  317 

and  used  only  to  prospect  by  chipping  the  rocks  with  a  hammer, 
lie  had,  however,  many  supernatural  indications  of  the  place 
made  to  him,  but  was  too  stupid  to  attend  to  them.  Once  a 
magpie  had  met  him,  and  tried  to  make  him  follow  it  towards 
the  place.  Another  time,  on  going  over  the  place,  his  attention 
was  called  to  it  by  a  lar^e  black  snake,  which  was  actually  coiled 
up  on  it ;  but,  in  his  blindness  and  hardness  of  heart,  he  had 
killed  the  poor  innocent  creature,  as  he  called  this  horribly  ven- 
omous reptile,  and  so  the  truth  was  still  kept  from  him.  At 
last,  one  day,  coming  through  a  wood  hard  by,  he  had  met  a 
gray  doe  kangaroo,  with  her  little  one ;  she  had  skipped  along, 
about  fifty  yards  before  him,  beckoning  to  him  to  follow ;  he 
followed,  and  they  led  him  to  the  Burnt  Hut  lot,  and  stopped 
when  they  came  to  the  rock.  Then  the  little  one,  the  "Joey," 
had  opened  its  mother's  pouch  and  got  in,  and  the  mother  skipped 
away  with  it  and  looked  round  no  more.  It  was  such  a  beautiful 
sight,  he  said,  that  he  blessed  the  two  pretty  beasts  in  his  heart ; 
and  instantly  light  was  vouchsafed  him.  What  he  had  hitherto 
taken  to  be  lichen  on  the  rocks  he  now  perceived  to  be  green 
carbonate  of  copper. 

He  announced  the  discovery  to  my  father  at  once,  who  had  a 
terrible  time  with  him.  My  father  got  it  into  his  head  that  his 
duty  forced  him  to  reveal  the  secret  to  Mr.  Dawson.  This,  in 
Trevittick's  mind,  was  sheer  and  absolute  ruin.  He  was  firmly 
assured  that  Mr.  Dawson  would  bid  over  their  heads,  and  that 
all  their  bright  prospects  would  vanish  forever.  My  father  knew 
Mr.  Dawson  better.  He  talked  over  Trev^ttick,  who  sulkily 
acquiesced.  Mr.  Dawson  was  not  unprepared  for  the  result ;  he 
himself  was  aware  of  the  existence  of  copper  on  some  land  of 
his  own  not  a  mile  distant,  and  at  once  not  only  refused  to  com- 
pete with  my  father,  but  offered  to  advance  him  money  to  make 
the  purchase.  After  a  generous  contest  between  these  unedu- 
cated gentlemen,  it  was  decided  that  they  were  to  share  the 
land  between  them. 

"What  between  Trevittick's  distrust  of  Mr.  Dawson  and  his 
dread  of  the  discovery  leaking  out,  he  was  pretty  nearly  out  of 
his  mind  during  the  interval  which  elapsed  before  the  land-sale. 
The  moment  it  was  over,  his  mind  recovered  its  usual  tone,  and, 
although  he  used  to  tell,  and  firmly  believe,  such  stories  as  that 
about  the  kangaroo,  yet  he  confined  this  midsummer  madness 
of  his  entirely  to  ghostly  matters,  and,  as  far  as  practical  matters 
were  concerned,  was  as  shrewd  and  clever  a  manager  as  one  could 
Wish  to  have. 

The  Burnt  Hut  Copper  Mining  Company,  consisted  (ideally) 
of,  2,000  shareholders,  at  £  a  per  share.  Of  these  shares,  1,000 
were  held  by  my  father,  250  by  Trevittick,  and  250  by  myself. 


318  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

The  otlier  500  shares,  being  thrown  into  the  market,  produced 
£  2,500,  which  was  every  farthing  of  working  capital  we  started 
with.  Trevittick  raised  6,000  tons  of  ore  in  nine  months,  tlie  net 
value  of  wliich  was  £  72,000  ;  cost  of  working  under  £  20,000  ; 
and  this  £  20,000  was  in  the  main  spent  in  prospective  works ; 
for,  as  for  the  copper,  it  was  simply  quarried  for  the  first  two 
years.  ''  We  sliall  do  better  next  year,  gentlemen,"  said  Trevit- 
tick to  the  meeting  of  the  shareholders,  when  shares  had  gone 
up  from  £5  to  £  150  in  the  market,  and  yet  most  of  them  held 
on  like  "grim  death."  "When  I  get  into  the  ten-fiithom  level, 
gentlemen,  we  shall  double  all  this,  unless  I  am  mistaken." 

He  did  in  fact  so  double  it,  but  the  depreciation  of  the  cost  of 
copper  in  Europe,  and  another  circumstance,  —  to  which  I  shall 
immediately  allude  by  itself,  as  it  has  much  to  do  with  the  web 
of  the  story,  —  about  counterbalanced  the  improvement  in  quan- 
tity. Counting  from  the  commencement  to  the  present  time,  the 
income  we  have  enjoyed  from  the  mine  may  be  put,  taking  one 
year  with  another,  at  £  17,000  a  year  to  my  father,  and  about 
£  8,000  a  year  to  Trevittick  and  myself.  The  first  thing  Trevit- 
tick did  with  his  money  was  to  build  a  brick  chapel  in  one  of  the 
main  thoroughfares  of  Palmerston,  —  so  large,  so  red,  and  so 
ugly,  that,  say  the  wags,  the  Governor's  horses  shied  at  it,  and 
pitched  Lady  Bostock  into  the  fishmonger's  shop. 


CHAPTER    LVII. 

THE  LAST   OF  THE   FORGE. 

And  so  my  father  had  struck  his  last  stroke  at  the  anvil  for- 
ever. One  seldom  feels  joy  at  times  of  excitement.  Johnson 
says,  and  sticks  to  it,  that  no  man  is  ever  happy  but  when  he  is 
drimk.  Without  going  so  far  as  that,  one  may  say  that  happi- 
ness is  mainly  prospective  and  retrospective.  How  often  can  one 
remember  to  have  said,  "  How  happy  I  am"  since  childhood. 
Then  I  liave  been  so  happy  that  I  could  not  eat.  I  particularly 
remember  one  summer  Sunday  that  my  father  had  helped  me  to 
the  brown  outside  of  the  roast  beef,  —  my  favorite  piece,  —  but 
that  I  was  so  happy  in  my  anticipation  of  the  afternoon's  delight 
that  I  could  n't  eat  it,  and  carried  it  out  with  me  in  a  paper.  I 
know  that  this  first  burst  of  good  fortune  is  not  one  of  the  times 
1  look  back  on  in  life  as  the  pleasantest ;  the  disturbance  of 
old  habits  was  too  great.     For  one  thing,  all  the  children  had  to 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  319 

be  sent  off  to  boarding-school  at  Pitt,  sixty  miles  away.  Our 
Fred  ran  away  the  first  montli,  and,  after  incredible  adventures, 
was  brought  home  by  the  bhicks.  Tiie  parting  was  a  very  sad 
business  indeed ;  and  my  mother,  in  the  heat  of  her  feelings, 
boldly  wislied  all  the  money  at  the  deuse.  Yes,  there  was  a  still 
sad  house  that  evening ;  and  I,  coming  across  from  my  house  in 
the  twilight  to  see  tlie  dear  old  folks,  found  that  they  had  wan- 
dered hand  in  hand  into  the  forge,  and  were  sitting  there  on  a 
bench,  side  by  side,  silent." 

I  tried  to  slip  away;  but  they  had  seen  me,  and  made  me 
come  in  and  sit  beside  them.  I  felt  a  great  disinclination  to 
speak,  and  I  was  glad  that  my  father  spoke  first. 

"  Come  in  to  us,  old  chap,"  he  said ;  "  we  've  got  you  left  any- 
how. This  won't  make  no  difference  in  you  ;  you  're  always  the 
same,  that 's  one  comfort." 

"  Why,  take  and  drat  your  money,  I  say,"  said  my  mother, 
angrily ;  "  God  forgive  me  if  I  don't  wish  the  hard  times  back 
again ;  we  could  see  one  another's  faces  then.  Old  man,  the 
weariest  day  I  ever  had  in  my  life  has  been  this  one,  when  we 
have  just  come  into  more  money  than  we  know  what  to  do  with. 
It 's  hard  enough,  in  all  conscience,  that  Martha  and  me  are  to  be 
reduced  to  keeping  servants,  and  not  allowed  to  touch  so  much 
as  a  carpet  broom ;  but  it 's  harder  to  have  my  children  took 
away  just  now  when  I  am  getting  a  bit  stiff  in  the  joints.  You  '11 
never  make  a  lady  of  me,  —  not  if  you  was  to  give  me  a  crown 
and  sceptre,  you  would  n't :  and  a  pretty  sort  of  a  gentleman 
you  'U  make,  old  man.  Why,  if  our  boys,  as  are  going  to  be 
brought  up  gentlemen,  were  like  any  other  boys,  they  'd  be 
ashamed  on  you.     They  won't ;  but  that 's  luck." 

"  Well,  and  that 's  the  best  luck  going,  old  woman,"  said  my 
father.  "  Wiiat  's  the  good  of  hollering  out  after  it 's  all  happened. 
You  and  rae  ain't  got  no  call  to  show.  Nobody  need  know  any- 
think  about  us ;  we  shall  be  able  to  go  on  much  as  usual,  I  reckon.'* 

"  You  're  never  the  same  man  when  you  ain't  at  work,  old 
chap,"  said  my  mother ;  "  and',  as  for  me,  think  what  my  feelings 
will  be  to  have  to  sit  by  and  see  an  awkward  slut  of  a  girl  mess- 
ing through  the  work  that  I  could  do  so  much  better  myself. 
And  Jim's  wife,  Martha,  too  ?  Look  at  that  girl's  charing ;  why 
/  never  see  anything  like  it,  with  the  exception  of  Mrs.  Chittle, 
who  chared  Park  Villa  at  the  end  of  a  fortnight,  nursing  two. 
Take  that  girl  away  from  her  soap  and  brush,  and  she  '11  peak 
and  pine  away,  if  she  's  the  girl  I  take  iier  for :  which  she  is." 

'*  Well,  she  don't  want  to  do  much  charing  just  now,  old 
woman,"  growled  my  father. 

"  No,  but  she  '11  want  to  after  a  bit  again,"  said  my  mother. 
"  In  about  six  weeks  she  '11  have  the  old  feeling  come  on  her 
strong ;  and,  mark  my  words,  them  as  thwarts  her  thwaxts  her." 


320  THE  HILLYAES  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  You  'd  better  have  a  saucepan  and  a  bit  of  sandpaper  toofe 
up  to  her  in  bed  then,"  said  my  father.  "  Let  her  polish  awajr 
at  that." 

This  was  undoubtedly  a  flagrant  violation  of  my  mother's 
rights  as  a  woman ;  she  would  n't  have  stood  it  from  the  doctor 
himself.  My  father  was  making  fun  about  subjects  of  which  he 
was  (officially)  supposed  to  be  utterly  and  entirely  ignorant.  His 
being  the  father  of  nine  was  nothing.  He  had  shown  a  tendency 
to  trifle  with  a  subject  which  no  woman  worthy  of  the  name  will 
allow  to  be  trifled  with  by  a  man  for  one  instant.  My  mother 
came  down  on  liim. 

"  It  would  have  been  as  well,  perhaps,"  she  said,  loftily,  "  if 
Mrs.  Jim  Holmes  had  not  been  thwarted  in  her  wish  to  go  to 
Wandsworth  fair ;  at  least  so  Mrs.  Quickly,  an  experienced  wo- 
man, whom  I  am  far  from  upholding  in  all  things,  is  of  opinion. 
She  considers  that  that  was  the  cause  of  her  threatening  to  chuck 
the  twins  out  of  winder.  I  would  not  venture  to  give  my  own 
opinion  on  any  account  whatever.  Men,  you  see,  have  sources 
of  information  which  are  denied  to  us." 

My  mother  tried  to  keep  her  dignity.  It  would  have  helped 
her  amazingly  had  she  been  able,  but  she  couldn't.  She  burst 
out  laughing,  and  my  father  and  I  followed  suit.  My  mother,  in 
the  feeble  attempt  to  preserve  her  dignity,  swept  out  of  the  forge, 
and  left  my  father  and  me  alone. 

"  Cut  a  nut  through  and  you  '11  come  to  the  meat,"  said  my 
father.  "  Let  her  talk  long  enough  and  you  '11  find  out  her  good- 
ness. Well,  here 's  the  forge  fire  out  for  good  and  all,  and  you 
and  me  as  rich  as  marquises.  This  is  the  last  night  that  you  and 
me  will  sit  together  on  the  forge,  old  man.  We  have  got  the 
wealth  of  gentlefolks.  I  shall  never  get  their  manners,  but  you 
may.  Fetch  a  candle  and  read  me  this  here  letter.  It 's  from 
Jack  Martin,  who  is  making  his  fortune  on  the  Sidney  side,  with 
the  gold.  He  seems  to  have  repented  of  his  treatment  of  me, 
but  not  of  his  bad  writing.     Read  it  out." 

I  saw  that  his  fancy  was  to  sit  in  the  shop  that  night  for  the 
last  time,  and  I  fetched  a  candle  and  read  the  letter  out.  I  hated 
Jack  Martin.  I  thought  him  a  worthless,  selfish  man ;  but 
my  father's  goodness  had  reflected  itself  on  him ;  and  he  was 
conscious  of  the  injury  he  had  once  done  my  father,  and  wished 
to  atone  for  it. 

It  was  dated  from  Canadian  Gully,  Ballarat.  He  had  cleared 
three  thousand  pounds  there,  and  earnestly  pressed  us  to  come. 
He  entered  into  details ;  and  his  letter  was  so  far  important  that 
it  was  the  first  reliable  intelligence  which  we  had  had  from  the 
Port  Philip  gold-fields ;  and,  as  a  matter  of  curiosity,  the  next 
time  I  wrote  to  Erne  Hillyar,  I  sent  it  to  him. 


THE  niLLYARS  AND  TUE  BURTONS.  321 


CHAPTER    LVIII. 

ERNE  GOES  ON  HIS  ADVENTURES. 

About  a  fortnight  after  this  the  most  astonishing  accounts  from 
Bendigo  appeared  in  both  the  Sentinel  and  the  Mohawk.  Tln-ee 
tons  of  gold  had  been  taken  down  to  Melbourne  by  the  fortnightly 
escort,  and  two  tons  remained  in  camp  for  want  of  carriage.* 
But  this,  according  to  the  Mohaiuk,  was  nothing  at  all  to  Lake 
Oraeo,  in  the  Australian  Alps.  In  an  article  in  which  Malachi's 
collar  was  duly  thrown  in  the  teeth  of  the  low-browed  Saxon,  the 
gold-fields  of  Lake  Omeo  were  allowed  to  surpass  the  auriferous 
deposits  of  the  Wicklow  mountains,  in  their  palmy  times,  before 
trade  was  paralyzed,  and  enterprise  was  checked,  by  the  arrival 
of  the  beastly  Dutchman.  And  really  the  most  astonishing  re- 
ports of  this-place  seemed  to  have  reached  Melbourne  from  various 
quarters.  The  black  sand,  containing  small  emeralds  and  rubies, 
would  yield  sixty  per  cent  of  pure  tin :  it  was  ten  and  twelve 
feet  thick,  and  at  the  bottom  of  it,  in  the  crannies  of  the  rock,  a 
pound  weight  of  gold  had  been  washed  out  of  a  panful.  I  was 
still  thinking  of  these  extraordinary  accounts  when  Erne  came 
slinging  along  the  road  and  jumped  off  his  horse  at  my  side. 

I  thought  he  had  come  over  to  see  the  works,  which  were  now 
progressing  nobly,  but  he  soon  undeceived  me. 

"  Well,"  he  said ;  « I  've  done  it ! " 

"  Done  what  ?  " 

"I've  cut  the  bush.  I'm  sick*of  it.  The  place  is  unbearable 
since  your  cousin  Samuel  has  given  up  coming  there ;  he  was  the 
only  person  worth  speaking  to.  I  've  read  all  the  books.  I  'm 
sick  of  the  smell  of  sheep ;  I  'm  sick  of  the  sight  of  a  saddle ;  I 
am,  oh  !  so  utterly  sick  of  those  long,  gray  plains.  I  am  sick  of 
being  kissed  by  old  Quickly  behind  the  door  when  she 's  drunk : 
I  should  have  had  that  cap  of  hers  off  her  head  and  chucked  it 
on  the  fire  if  I  had  staid  much  longer.  And  now  Clayton  is  get- 
ting sulky  at  the  goings  on,  as  well  he  may ;  and  so  I  have  come 
off,  and  am  going  to  Lake  Omeo." 

"  Think  before  you  do  that,  my  dear  Erne." 

"  I  want  adventure,  excitement,  movement  of  some  kind.  If 
I  stayed  there,  moping  about  Emma  much  longer,  I  should  go 
mad.  I  shall  never  forget  her  there.  Come  with  me,  old  fellow. 
You  are  rich  enough  to  do  as  you  like  now ;  come  with  me." 

*  Fact. 

U*  u 


322  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

I  don't  think  I  was  ever  more  tempted  in  my  life.  It  would 
have  been  such  a  glorious  adventure,  with  him.  It  would  have 
been  the  finest  adventure  we  had  ever  had  together ;  but  I  had  to 
set  my  teeth,  and  say  "  No."  There  was  some  one  expected,  and 
I  could  n't  leave  my  wife. 

He  was  very  much  disappointed,  but  did  not  say  another  word. 
He  was  perfectly  bent  on  going.  I  knew  his  romantic  impulsive- 
ness of  old,  and  was  aware  that  nothing  would  turn  him. 

Trevittick  had  listened  to  our  conversation  and  had  left  us. 
Tom  Williams  very  soon  came  up  and  joined  us. 

"  My  eye  !  "  he  said,  "  don 't  it  make  your  mouth  water.  Take 
me  with  you,  Mr.  Erne.  You  and  I  were  always  favorites  to- 
gether.    Come,  let  us  go." 

"  Oh,  do  come,  old  fellow,"  said  Erne.  "  Do  let  me  have  one 
face  with  me  in  this  adventure  that  I  know  and  like  as  well  as 
yours.  Oh,  do  come,  and  we  will  go  through  it  all  together  to 
the  end.  Next  to  Jim  here,  I  would  have  chosen  you  among  all 
men  to  be  my  friend  and  brother  in  this  quest.  How  glorious 
the  life,  the  motion,  the  novelty,  the  crowds  of  strange  faces  will 
be  !  What  will  be  the  end  of  it  ?  Where  shall  we  find  ourselves 
at  last  ?  Hurrah  for  the  cool  brisk  South  ;  and  good-bye  to  these 
hot,  melancholy  forests.  Give  me  your  hand,  my  boy.  We  are 
vowed  to  one  another  henceforward. 

'  It  may  be  that  the  gulfs  will  wash  us  down  ; 
It  may  be  we  shall  touch  the  happy  isles, 
And  see  the  great  Achilles,  whom  we  knew.'  " 

I  cast  a  look  of  gratitude  at  Tom  Williams.  "  But,"  I  said, 
*'  what  will  Trevittick  say  ?  " 

"  Trevittick,"  growled  that  gentleman,  behind  me,  "  will  say 
just  what  he  told  Tom  Williams  just  now.  That,  if  he  sees  that 
young  gentleman  go  out  alone,  without  one  single  friend,  into  the 
terrible  scenes  and  places  he  will  have  to  encounter,  he  never 
need  n't  trouble  himself  to  speak  to  me  no  more :  and  so  I  tell 
him." 

And  so  these  two  went  together.  The  Wainoora,  the  steamer 
by  which  they  went,  sailed  one  summer  morn  at  daybreak  south- 
ward to  Palmerston  and  Melbourne.  His  last  words  to  me  were, 
"  Tell  her  that  I  am  the  same  to  her  till  death."  I  went  up, 
on  to  the  highest  point  of  the  Cape,  high  above  the  town,  and 
watched  the  little  steamer,  steady  and  true  in  her  course  as  a 
star,  traversing  the  great  purple  rollers  of  the  Indian  Ocean, 
which  broke  on  the  coast  under  her  lee  in  far-heard  thunders. 
Her  screw  raised  a  little  thread  of  foam  in  her  wake,  and  her  fun- 
nel left  a  haze  of  smoke  aloft,  which  travelled  with  her,  for  the 
wind  was  fair.  I  watched  her  round  Cape  Windham,  and  then 
she  was  gone,  and  Erne  was  gone  with  her.     I  turned  wearily. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  323 

with  a  sigh,  and  lookecl  northward.  Nothing  there  but  the  old 
endless  succession  of  melancholy  forest  caj)es,  fringed  with  silver 
surf;  aloft,  lazily-floating  clouds.  They  would  have  a  fair  j)as- 
sage. 

"  And  so  your  sister  has  drove  him  to  the  diggings  at  last,  has 
she  ?  "  said  a  voice  behind  me.  "  I  guessed  she  would,  all  along. 
She  has  used  him  shameful.  I  would  n't  have  cared  if  it  had 
been  only  Rendigo,  or  IJallarat,  or  the  Avoca ;  but  he  is  going  to 
Omeo ;  and  Omeo  and  the  Buckland  are  death  to  such  as  he. 
I  hoped  you  kissed  him  when  you  said  good-bye,  for  you  '11 
none  of  you  see  him  any  more.  And  a  nice  mess  you  've  made 
of  it  among  you." 

It  was  my  cousin  Samuel,  who  had  crept  up  behind  me.  And 
I  turned  sternly  on  him,  and  asked  him  what  he  meant. 

"  What  I  say.  That  sister  of  yours,  with  her  high-faluting 
balderdash,  has  driven  that  young  man  out  of  his  mind.  I  am  a 
poor  fallen,  wicked  old  man  ;  but  that  Erne  Hillyar  is  such  a 
pure,  simple,  high-souled  gentleman,  that  at  times  he  has  made 
me  waver  in  my  purpose,  and  feel  inclined  to  do  what  I  won't  do 
unless  that  fellow  pushes  me  too  far.  He  wants  brains,  may  be ; 
so  do  you  ;  but  he  is  the  first  man  I  have  met  for  twenty  years 
who,  knowing  everything,  has  treated  me  as  an  equal.  I  never 
met  such  a  fine  lad  in  my  life.  He  has  quietly  made  me  ashamed 
of  my  old  habits,  and  is  the  first  man  who  has  given  me  hopes  for 
the  future.  But  he  ain't  good  enough  for  your  sister.  And  she 
has  sent  him  south  to  die." 

The  sun  was  bright  overhead,  and  the  summer  wind  was  whis- 
pering gently  among  the  heathers  and  Hakeas  around,  and  yet  it 
seemed  to  grow  dark,  and  the  wind  to  get  chill,  as  my  cousin  left 
me  with  these  words.  He  passed  slowly  down  the  hill  towards 
his  estate,  and,  entering  the  wood  behind  his  house,  disappeared, 
and  left  me  to  my  thoughts. 


324:  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 


CHAPTER    LIX. 

JAMES  OXTON   GOES   OUT,   AND  WIDOW  NORTH   COMES  IN. 

James  Oxton  splashed  and  floundered  through  two  more  ses- 
sions after  Erne's  first  arrival  in  the  colony.  Sometimes  he  was 
up  to  his  knees,  sometimes  up  to  his  middle  ;  sometimes  the  enemy- 
said  that  he  was  over  his  head,  and  that  there  was  the  finish  and 
end  of  the  man,-  body  and  bones,  and  high  time  too.  But,  no. 
On  questions  of  great  public  utility,  his  personal  prestige,  com- 
bined with  the  good  sense  of  the  House,  and  possibly  the  putting 
to  work  of  some  parliamentary  tactics,  was  still  sufficient  to  carry 
him  through,  and  James  Oxton  managed  to  follow  each  Opposi- 
tion victory  by  a  greater  one  of  his  own ;  and  so,  although  sick  of 
the  business  altogether,  he  held  on  manfully.  He  was  loth  to  see 
the  work  of  twenty  years,  as  he  thought,  ruined. 

At  last  the  advanced  party  brought  in  a  Land  Bill  of  their  own, 
and  lost  it  by  only  three  votes,  including  the  Speaker.  It  became 
necessary  for  James  Oxton  to  "  go  to  the  country."  His  Excel- 
lency, being  a  wise  P^xcellency,  and  therefore  unwilling  to  do 
what  he  had  the  power  to  do,  if  he  chose,  —  to  keep  in  a  favorite 
minister  and  dear  friend  against  the  wishes  of  the  colony,  —  com- 
plied with  a  heavy  heart  with  James  Oxton's  request.  He  dis- 
solved the  Assembly,  and  sent  James  Oxton  to  the  country.  The 
country  very  properly  sent  him  back  again  with  eight  votes  less 
than  he  came  with. 

The  question  is  much  more  easily  understandable  than  the 
Schleswig-Holstein  one,  which  has  come  by  a  rather  queer  solu- 
tion, as,  "  There  are  more  dogs  than  cats,  and  therefore  the  cats 
must  all  turn  dogs  at  their  peril."  The  question  on  which  James 
Oxton  came  by  what  the  Mohawk  called  his  "downfall"  was  by 
no  means  of  a  European  complexity.  In  fact,  colonial  politics  are 
not  difficult  to  master,  for  the  simple  reason  that  there  are  seldom 
more  than  two  interests  at  work  at  the  same  time,  and  that  those 
two  interests  do  so  jam,  pound,  and  pummel  one  another,  that,  al- 
though logic,  nay,  sometimes,  as  in  J^ngland  at  hot  moments,  even 
grammar,  may  suffer ;  yet  those  two  interests  between  them,  gen- 
erally "  ventilate  "  the  question  most  thoroughly ;  and,  to  use  a 
thoroughly  MohaivMan  catachresis,  look  over  one  another's  cards, 
and  see  which  way  the  cat  is  going  to  jump. 

The  great  export  of  the  country  was  wool.  The  foundation 
of  its  present  prosperity  was  wool.     To  grow  wool  with  success 


THE  IIILLYARS  AND  THE   BURTONS.  325 

enormous  tracts  must  be  under  the  control  of  one  single  man.  A 
wool-grower  must  have  30,000  acre.^,  at  least,  under  his  sole  com- 
mand, and  then  on  the  best  of  country  he  could  not  safely  venture 
on  more  tlian  9,000  sheep ;  for  he  might  have  his  run  swept  by  a 
fire  any  January  night,  and  be  forced  to  hurry  his  sheep  down  to 
tlie  boiling-house.  Now  the  small  farmers,  contemptuously  called 
'*  cockatoos,"  were  the  fathers  of  fire,  the  inventors  of  scab,  the 
seducers  of  bush-hands  for  hay-making  and  harvesting,  the  inter- 
lopers on  the  wool-growers'  grass  with  their  cattle  and  horses. 
James  Oxton,  a  ''  squatter,"  a  wool-grower  among  wool-growers, 
had  argued  thus,  and  had  unworthily  blinded  himself  so  far  as  to 
legislate  for  his  own  class. 

In  order  to  prevent  the  acquisition  of  land  by  the  laboring 
classes,  he  had  rigorously  resisted  every  attempt  to  alter  the  old 
land  laws.  The  upset  price  was  one  pound  an  acre,  payable  at 
once.  Any  one  could  demand  and  get  a  special  survey  of  not 
less  than  5,000  acres  at  that  price  without  competition,  by  which 
mischievous  regulation  large  tracts  of  the  very  best  land  were  in 
the  hands  of  great  capitalists.  His  own  estate,  "  The  Bend,"  was 
one  of  these  special  surveys,  and  had  increased  in  value  from 
£5,000  to  £30,000.  And  lastly,  the  quantity  of  land  thrown 
into  the  market  was  exceedingly  limited.  In  this  way,  using  the 
money  raised  by  the  land  sales  to  assist  emigrants,  he  was  creat- 
ing a  lower  class,  and  depressing  the  price  of  labo"r  by  denying 
them  land. 

The  Radicals  had  brought  in  a  bill  demanding  the  right  of  se- 
lection of  lots  as  small  as  eighty  acres,  and  three  years'  credit  in 
paying  for  it.  This  was  too  liberal,  and,  in  spite  of  the  furious 
war-whoops  of  Mr.  O'Callaghan,  was  rejected.  Government  hav- 
ing a  majority  of  three. 

Had  .James  Oxton,  even  after  the  loss  of  eight  votes  by  the 
dissolution,  brought  in  a  moderate  measure  of  his  own,  all  would 
have  gone  well.  But,  he  refusing  to  move  in  the  matter  at  all, 
and  there  being  undoubtedly  a  strong  necessity  to  attend  to  the 
cry  of  "unlock  the  lands,"  the  Radicals  brought  in  their  bill,  a 
more  moderate  one  than  the  last.  The  House  accepted  it  by  a 
majority  of  eleven  against  the  Government,  and  James  Oxton, 
the  moment  after  the  division,  announced  his  resignation  amidst 
the  most  profound  silence. 

Though  the  Mohawk  said  next  mornino:  that  the  brazen  head 
of  James  Oxton  had  been  found,  like  that  of  Lord  Bacon,  to  have 
feet  of  clay,  and  that  when  it  had  done  rolling  in  the  dust  the  op- 
pression of  seventeen  years  was  revenged  at  last ;  yet  still,  now  it 
was  done,  every  one  was  a  little  bit  frightened.  The  Secretary 
was  so  good,  and  big,  and  so  calm,  and  had  governed  the  colony 
so  well.     And  Mr.  O'Ryan  had  formerly  made  no  secret  of  his 


326  THE  HILLYAES  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

intentions.  People  remembered  the  programme  wliich  lie  had 
offered  the  country  five  years  before,  when  power  had  been  be- 
yond his  grasp  ;  he  had  concealed  his  wicked  principles  lately,  but 
that  was  his  artfulness.  They  remembered  manhood  suffrage  and 
separation  from  the  mother-country.  Moderate  people  began  to 
think  they  had  got  into  a  scrape  ;  but  there  was  Mr.  O'Ryan  at 
Government  House,  and  the  list  would  be  out  that  evening. 

And,  when  the  list  did  come  out,  things  did  not  look  much  bet- 
ter. There  was  not  an  English  or  a  Scotch  name  in  it.  The 
Radical  party  was  ofHcered  almost  entirely  by  Irishmen,  and  the 
Irishmen  had  taken  care  of  themselves  to  the  exclusion  of  the 
other  two  nations.  Ministers  in  the  House  :  —  O'Ryan,  Secre- 
tary ;  Murphy,  Education  ;  Moriarty,  Trade  ;  and  so  on.  And 
where  was  Dempsey  ?  Not  in  the  list  at  all,  but  concocting 
some  malignant  conspiracy  in  the  background  ;  which  was  even 
more  dreadful  to  imaginative  people  than  if  the  destinies  of  the 
community  had  been  handed  over  altogether  to  the  tender  mercies 
of  that  red-handed  rebel.  And  the  inferior  appointments  too  ! 
Rory  O'More,.  Barney  Brallagan,  and  so  on  !  And  did  anybody 
ever  hear  of  such  a  measure  as  appointing  old  Lesbia  Burke  Post- 
master General? 

"  O'Ryan  must  suddenly  have  gone  mad,  my  dear  Mr.  Bur- 
ton," said  the  pretty  and  clever  little  widow,  Mrs.  "North,  to  our 
old  friend  Joe,  as  they  sat  on  a  sofa,  side  by  side,  reading  the 
lists  together,  with  their  heads  very  nearly  touching. 

Joe,  now  the  prosperous  and  wealthy  Mr.  Burton,  had  been 
elected  for  North  Palmerston  at  the  last  election,  and  the  night 
before  had  spoken  for  the  first  time.  He  had  spoken  so  wisely 
and  so  well 'las  to  command  the  greatest  attention  and  respect. 
He  had  counselled  moderation  on  both  sides,  and  the  style  of  his 
speech  pointed  him  out  at  once  as  a  man  of  the  very  highest 
class. 

The  place  where  they  were  sitting  was  Mrs.  Oxton's  drawing- 
room  ;  the  time  twilight.  Emma  and  Mrs.  Oxton  had  gone  to 
the  opera,  and  the  Secretary  was  shouting  at  play  with  his  boy 
at  the  other  end  of  the  garden.     They  were  alone. 

"  O'Ryan  must  suddenly  have  gone  mad,  my  dear  Mr.  Bur- 
ton." 

"  Not  the  least,  my  dear  madam.  He  only  wanted  to  avoid 
the  fate  of  Actaion.  He  would  have  been  torn  to  pieces  by  his 
following,  if  he  hadn't  placed  every  one  possible.  You  see 
Dempsey  has  refused  office,  to  leave  one  more  place  vacant,  and 
satisfy  one  more  claimant ;  and,  as  it  is,  there  must  be  two  or 
three  dozen  unsatisfied.     He  has  done  the  best  he  can." 

"  He  is  a  man  of  great  ability,"  said  the  widow. 

"  A  first-rate  man,  if  he  had  some  one  to  keep  him  quiet,  to 


THE  IIILLYAKS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  327 

let  him  talk  and  prevent  his  going  too  far  in  action  ;  the  second 
man  in  the  colony." 

"  I  know  who  promises  to  be  the  third,"  said  the  widow,  very 
qnietly. 

Joe  blushed  and  laughed. 

"  What  a  really  beautiful  face  he  has,"  said  the  widow  to  her- 
self.    "  What  a  pity  it  is  about  his  poor  dear  back." 

"  You  spoke  so  splendidly  last  night,"  she  went  on.  "  If  you 
could  only  have  heard  what  Mr.  Oxton  said!" 

"  I  would  sooner  hear  what  you  said." 

"  It  was  so  noble  of  you  to  acknowledge  that  you  had  modified 
your  opinions,  and  that  there  w^ere  many  things  on  which  you 
differed  from  the  Secretary,  and  then  to  make  that  resume  of  his 
services  to  the  colony  ;  such  a  glorious  panegyric  !  I  clasped 
my  hands  together  wdth  excitement  as  you  went  on." 

"  I  live  with  one  object,"  said  Joe,  "  and  you  are  worthy  to 
know  of  it ;  you  are  worthy  to  share  my  secret.  I  dread  the 
effects  of  faction  on  this  colony.  This  colony  must  be  governed 
by  a  great  coalition  between  James  Oxton  and  Phelim  O'Ryan, 
and  I  am  the  man  to  bring  that  about." 

The  wadow  thought,  "  Well,  you  have  a  tolerable  amount  of 
assurance,  if  that  is  any  recommendation.  Is  there  anything 
else  you  would  like  ? "  But  she  said  rapturously,  "  What  a 
magnificent  and  statesmanlike  idea.  Oh,  the  day  you  bring 
about  that  result,  I  will  retire  to  my  houdoir  and  weep  for 
joy!"   .  • 

"  Do  you  wish  me  success  ?  "  exclaimed  Joe,  seizing  her  hand 
in  his  absence  of  mind.     "  Oh,  if " 

''  Hullo  !  you  people,"  exclaimed  the  Secretary,  who  came  up 
at  this  moment,*  "  Is  that  the  Sentinel  ?  Is  the  list  out  ?  Let 
us  look." 

Both  the  widow  and  Joe  got  excessively  red,  but  perhaps  the 
Secretary  did  n't  notice  it.  At  all  events  he  did  not  say  any- 
thing. 

"  Only  three  tolerable  people  among  the  lot.  Old  Lesbia 
Burke  is  the  best  man  among  them,  when  all  is  said  and 
done  !  " 

"  But  W'hat  an  absurd  thing  to  do ;  to  appoint  a  woman," 
bridled  the  widow.     "  It  is  so,  —  so  improper." 

"  It 's  rather  a  cool  precedent,  certainly ;  but,  as  for  Lesbia, 
the  dear  old  girl  would  command  a  frigate,  or  take  a  regiment 
into  action,  if  you  gave  her  a  month's  training." 

"  Well,  she  is  a  kind  body,  and  I  wish  her  well,"  said  the  good- 
natured  little  widow.  Every  one  had  a  kind  word  for  Miss 
Burke. 

"  Shall  you  think  me  a  brute,"  said  the  Secretary,  "  if  I  leave 


328  THE  HILLY ARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

you  here  with  Burton,  and  step  into  town  to  the  dub  and  hear 
the  news  ?  I  ought  to  show  to-day,  or  they  will  think  I  am 
crying." 

"  Oh,  do  go,  my  dear  creature.  Don't,  for  heaven's  sake,  let 
tliem  tliink  you  feel  it.  Mr.  Burton  and  I  will  sit  here  and  play 
euchre,  and  abuse  the  new  Ministers.  We  are  getting  very  fond 
of  one  another."     And  so  the  Secretary  went. 


CHAPTER    LX. 

TOO  LATE  !     TOO  LATE  ! 

The  widow  and  Joe  had  some  half-hour's  flirtation  before  the 
Secretary  returned.  He  had  been  much  less  time  than  they  ex- 
pected, and  looked  very  grave.  "  Burton,"  he  said,  "  I  want  to 
speak  to  you." 

Joe  went  into  another  room  with  him.  "  I  have  heard  grave 
news,  I  am  sorry  to  say,"  continued  he,  "  which  affects  a  mutual 
friend  of  ours,  and,  as  I  have  long  suspected,  a  very  dear  one  of 
your  sister's.  The  Melbourne  papers  have  just  come  in;  read 
this." 

Joe  with  dismay  read  the  following :  — 

"The  unfortunate  Omeo  business  is  assuming  very  tragical 
proportions,  and  Government,  will  have  to  take  immediate  meas- 
ures to  see  if  any  of  the  poor  fellows  are  still,  by  any  pos- 
sibility, alive.  We  said,  last  week,  that  provisions  were  at 
famine  prices,  and  utterly  deficient  in  quantity ;  since  then,  the 
miserable  diggers  have  taken  the  only  measure  left  open  to  them. 
They  have  fled,  most  of  them,  towards  the  Ovens,  160  miles, 
through  a  nearly  unknown  and  quite  uninhabited  country,  with- 
out provisions.  Such  troopers  as  have  been  sent  out  to  seek  for 
them  have  come  back  with  the  most  terrible  stories.  Trooper 
O'Reilly  found  no  less  than  eight  dead  together  on  the  Milta 
Milta,  in  one  place.  One  thing  is  perfectly  certain :  two  hun- 
dred famine-stricken  wretches  have  left  the  Omeo,  and  only 
nine  have  reached  Beech  worth  by  Snake  Valley ;  while  eleven 
have  turned  up  at  the  Nine  Mile  Creek  on  the  Sydney  Road. 
In  this  most  lamentable  and  unhappy  business,  we  can  blame  no 
one.  There  was  gold  there,  for  Trooper  O'Reilly  took  130 
ounces  from  the  bodies  of  the  unfortunates,  —  which  bodies,  after 
securing  such  papers  as  would  lead  to  their  identification,  he  had 
to  leave  to  the  tender  mercies  of  the  eagle-hawks  and  wild  dogs, 


THE  HILLY ABS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  329 

and  all  the  other  nameless  horrors  of  which  it  appals  us  to 
tliiiik.  To  the  relatives  of  those  men  who  are  known  to  have 
loft  the  lake  westwardly,  and  whose  names  we  give  here,  we 
would  say,  '  If  those  you  love  are  not  among  the  twenty  men 
who  have  come  back,  give  up  hope.  We  are  kind,  while  we 
seem  cruel.  Give  up  hope.  Those  you  love  are  at  rest  by 
now.'  " 

Joe  looked  up  with  a  scared  face,  for  neither  Erne's  name  nor 
Tom  Williams's  name  was  in  the  list.  He  read  them  through  once 
more  in  the  wild  hope  that  they  were  there,  and  he  had  missed 
them  ;  once  more  to  feel  to  the  full  the  realization  of  the  agony 
he  felt  at  their  absence.  We  must  have  a  fruition  of  pain  as  of 
pleasure,  or  we  gain  no  relief.  When  your  child  died,  sir,  why 
did  you  go  and  look  into  the  coffin  ? 

''I  am  guilty  of  this  man's  blood,"  he  said.  "I  stand  here 
before  you,  as  the  murderer  of -Erne  Hillyar,  in  the  sight  of 
God." 

"  My  good  fellow,"  said  the  Secretary,  "  don't  be  rhetorical. 
Don't  use  that  inflated  style  of  speech,  which  may  be  useful 
enough  in  the  House  ;  in  common  life  it 's  a  bad  habit.  What 
on  earth  do  you  mean  ?  " 

'"  I  mean  every  word  I  say.  I  wish  your  taunt  was  true,  but 
it  is  not.  I  know  now  that  my  sister  Emma  loved  him,  and 
would  have  married  him,  but  that  she  refused  to.  leave  me,  be- 
cause my  hideous  infirmity  would  render  domestic  life,  —  I  mean 
married  domestic  life,  —  an  impossibility.  She  devoted  herself 
to  me,  and  refused  him.  And  he,  caring  nothing  for  life,  has 
gone  to  that  miserable  God-forgotten  desert,  and  has  died  there. 
1  saw  her  doing  all  this,  and  in  my  wretched  selfishness  let  her 
do  it,  and  said  not  one  word.  Call  me  coward,  knave,  selfish  vil- 
lain, what  you  will,  but  don't  taunt  me  with  rhetorical  flourishes. 
I  am  Erne  Hillyar's  murderer." 

The  Secretary  looked  exceedingly  grave.  Seventeen  years, 
passed  partly  in  money-making,  and  partly  in  official  life,  had 
not  deadened  the  sentimental  part  of  him  one  bit ;  he  still  hated 
to  inflict  pain ;  but  he  had  learned  to  say  a  hard  word,  when  he 
thoufjht  that  word  was  deserved,  and  when  it  did  not  interfere 
with  any  political  combination.  The  sentimental  third  of  his  soul 
was  enlisted  on  Emma's  side  most  entirely  since  Joe's  explana- 
tion ;  he  bore  very  hard  on  Joe  and  was  angry  with  him. 

''  You  have  been  much  to  blame,"  he  said,  and  would  have 
gone  on,  but  there  was  a  crackling  of  wheels  on  the  gravel,  and 
he  paused.  "  Keep  it  from  her,"  he  said  hurriedly.  ""This  may 
not  be  true.  Keep  the  papers  from  her.  They  are  coming.  If 
it  is  true,  let  her  hear  it  from  my  wife." 

They  went  quickly  into  the  next  room  to  join  Mrs.  North,  and 


S30  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

immediately  after  Mrs.  Oxton  and  Emma  came  in.  Both  were 
clumged  since  we  made  their  acquaintance  a  few  years  ago.  Mrs. 
Oxton  had  faded  rapidly,  like  most  Australian  beauties,  and  there 
was  nothing  left  of  the  once  splendid  ensemble  but  the  eyes  and 
the  teeth  ;  they  were  as  brilliant  as  ever  ;  but  her  complexion  was 
faded  into  a  sickly  yellow,  and  her  beauty  had  to  take  its  chance 
without  any  assistance  from  color,  which  was  a  hard  trial  for  it, 
to  which  it  had  somewhat  succumbed.  Still,  she  had  gained  a 
weary  and  altogether  loveable  expression,  which  was,  perhaps, 
more  charming  than  her  old  splendid  beauty.  Emma  also  was 
very  much  changed. 

She  had  always  been  what  some  call  "  young  of  her  age."  She 
had  been  a  long  while  in  developing,  but  now  she  had  developed 
into  a  most  magnificent  woman.  The  old,  soft,  and  childish 
roundness  of  her  face  was  gone,  and  out  of  it  there  had  come,  as 
it  were,  the  ideal  of  the  soul  within,  —  gentle,  patient,  —  of  a  soul 
that  had  suffered,  and  would  endure.  Her  look  was  one  of  con- 
tinual and  perfect  repose ;  and  yet,  now  that  the  face  was  more 
defined,  those  who  knew  her  best  could  see  how  clearly  and  deci- 
sively the  mouth  and  chin  were  cut ;  one  could  see  now  how  it  was 
that  she  could  not  only  endure,  but  act. 

She  was  tall,  but  not  so  tall  as  her  mother.  Her  carriage  was 
very  easy  and  graceful,  though  very  deliberate. 

During  her  residence  in  Palmerston  she  had  taken  care  to 
watch  the  best  people,  and  was  quite -clever  enough  to  copy  their 
manners  without  caricaturing  them,  which  is  being  very  clever 
indeed.  This  evening  she  was  dressed  in  white  crape,  with  a 
scarlet  opera-cloak ;  her  wreath  was  of  dark  red  Kennedya,  and 
she  had  a  considerable  number  of  diamonds  on  her  bosom,  though 
no  other  jewels  whatever.  Altogether  she  was  a  most  imperial- 
looking  person,  and  deserved  certainly  what  she  had  had  that 
night,  —  the  attention  of  the  whole  theatre. 

"  I  am  so  sorry  you  did  not  go  with  us,  Mrs.  North,"  she  said  in 
her  quiet  old  voice,  not  altered  one  bit.  "  Catherine  Hayes  has 
been  singing  more  divinely  than  ever.  My  dear  brother,  you 
have  lost  something.     Will  you  come  home  now  ?  " 

"  I  cannot  let  you  go  till  you  have  had  supper,  my  love,"  put 
in  Mrs.  Oxton  ;  and  Emma  willingly  assented,  and  talked  pleas- 
antly about  the  opera,  until  they  came  into  the  light  of  the  dining- 
room.     After  she  had  seen  Joe's  face  she  was  quite  silent. 

They  drove  home,  and  the  instant  they  were  alone  in  their 
house  she  spoke.  "  My  own  brother,  I  have  not  spelt  at  your 
face  for  bo  many  years  without  being  able  to  read  it ;  but  there  is 
a  look  in  it  to-night  which  I  have  never  seen  there  before.  Some- 
thing terrible  has  happened." 

Joe  remained  silent. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  331 

« Is  Erne  dead  ?  " 

Joe  tried  to  speak,  but  only  burst  into  tears. 

"I  can  bear  it,  dear,  if  you  tell  me  quickly,  —  at  least,  I  tliink 
I  can  bear  it,  or  I  will  try,  God  help  me !    Qnly  tell  me  quickly." 

"  There  is  no  certainty.  There  is  a  list  published,  and  his 
name  is  not  there.     That  is  all." 

"  Have  you  got  the  paper  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  must  see  it,  or  I  shall  die.  I  must  know  the  worst,  or  1 
shall  die.     I  must  see  that  paper." 

Joseph  was  forced  to  give  it  to  her,  and  she  read  it  quickly 
through.  Then  she  sat  down  on  a  chair,  and  began  rocking  her 
body  to  and  fro.  Once,  after  a  long  time,  she  turned  a  face  on 
Joseph  which  frightened  him,  and  said,  "  Eagle-hawks  and  wild 
dogs,"  but  she  resumed  her  rocking  to  and  fro  once  more.  At 
last  she  said,  '•  Go  to  bed,  dear,  and  leave  me  alone  with  God." 
And  to  bed  he  went ;  and,  as  he  saw  her  last,  she  was  still  sitting 
there,  with  her  bouquet  and  her  fan  in  her  lajD,  and  the  diamonds 
on  her  bosom  flashing  to  and  fro  before  the  fire,  but  tearless  and 
silent. 

She  in  her  white  crape  and  diamonds,  and  Erne  lying  solitary 
in  the  bush,  with  the  eagle-hawks  and  wild  dogs  riving  and  tear- 
ing at  his  corpse.     It  had  come  to  this,  then ! 

Why  had  Joe  brought  away  the  old  sampler  he  had  found  in 
the  great  room  at  Chelsea,  the  sampler  of  the  poor  Hillyar  girl, 
and  hung  it  up  over  the  fireplace  in  the  drawing-room  ?  What 
strange,  unconscious  cruelty !  In  her  solitary,  agonized  working 
to  and  fro  on  that  miserable  night,  never  iri^atient  or  wild,  but 
ah !  so  weary ;  that  old  sampler  was  before  her,  and  her  tearless 
eyes  kept  fixing  themselves  upon  it,  till  the  words,  at  first  mere 
shreds  of  faded  worsted,  began  to  have  a  meaning  for  her  which 
they  never  had  before.  That  poor  crippled  Hillyar  girl,  she 
thought,  had  stitched  those  words  on  the  canvas  two  hundred 
years  agone,  that  they  might  hang  before  her  on  this  terrible 
night,  —  before  her  who  might  have  borne  the  dear  name  of  Hill- 
yar, but  who  had  driven  her  kinsman  to  his  death  by  her  obsti- 
nacy ;  hung  there  by  her  crippled  brother,  for  whose  sake  she 
had  refused  this  gallant  young  Hillyar,  who  had  wooed  her  so 
faithfully  and  so  truly. 

"  Why  were  the  Hillyars  and  the  Burtons  ever  allowed  to 
meet,"  she  asked  herself,  "■  if  nothing  but  misery  is  to  come  of 
their  meeting  ?  He  said  once,  when  we  were  children,  that  our 
house  was  an  unlucky  one  to  the  Hillyars.  He  spoke  truth,  dear 
saint.     Let  me  go  to  liim,  —  let  me  go  to  him  !  " 

So  her  diamonds  went  flashing  to  and  fro  before  the  fire,  till 
the  fire  grew  dim,  till  the  ashes  grew  dead  and  cold,  and  the 


332  THE  HILLYAES  AND-  THE  BURTONS. 

centipedes,  coming  back  from  under  the  fender  to  seek  for  the 
logs  which  had  been  their  homes,  found  them  burnt  up  and  gone, 
and  rowed  themselves  into  crannies  in  the  brick-work,  to  wait  for 
better  times. 

Yet  as  the  morn  grew  chill  she  sat,  with  her  diamonds,  and 
her  fan,  and  her  bouquet ;  with  the  old  sampler  over  the  chimney- 
piece  before  her,  reading  it  aloud,  — 

*'  Weep  not,  sweet  friends,  m)'  early  doom, 
Lay  not  fresh  flowers  upon  my  tomb; 
But  elder  sour  and  briony, 
And  yew-bough  broken  from  the  tree." 

"  Let  me  go  to  him  !  Dead,  —  alone  in  the  bush,  with  the 
eagle-hawks  and  wild  dogs !     Let  me  go  to  him ! " 


CHAPTER    LXI. 

HUSBAND   AND  WIFE. 

All  this  time  there  was  a  Sir  George  Hillyar  somewhere. 
But  where  ?  That  is  a  question  which  will  never  be  answered 
with  any  accuracy,  even  were  it  worth  answering.  What  an 
utterly  dissipated  and  utterly  desperate  man  does  with  himself  in 
London  I  do  not  know ;  at  least,  I  am  unacquainted  with  the  de- 
\'\s,  and,  even  wei^  I  not,  I  should  hesitate  to  write  them  down. 
NS^ecent  house  would  allow  my  book  to  lie  on  the  drawing-room 
table  if  I  dared  put  in  a  tale  what  one  reads  every  day  in  the  po- 
lice-reports of  the  newspapers. 

One  thing  Mr.  Compton  found  out  very  easily :  all  his  letters 
bore  the  London  post-mark.  Mr.  Compton  could  not  make  it 
out.  Why  did  he  not  come  home  ?  Why  did  he  not  show  ? 
Was  he  a  defaulter,  or  had  he  made  another  engagement,  and 
did  n't  dare  to  face  his  wife  ?  The  old  man  suspected  the  latter 
was  the  case,  and  there  is  every  reason  to  believe  that  he  was 
right. 

Reuben  saw  him  sometimes  ;  but  he  never  told  any  one.  Their 
appointments  were  always  made  at  Chelsea.  Reuben  found  that 
Sir  George's  practice  of  creeping  into  the  old  house  had  become 
habitual,  and  he  taxed  him  with  it ;  and  so  by  degrees  he  dis- 
covered this,  —  thai  Sir  George  had  discovered  that  this  was  one 
of  Samuel  Burton's  former  haunts,  and  that  he  had  conceived  an 
idea  that  he  would  somehow  or  another  return  there.  This  no- 
tion, originally  well  founded,  seemed  to  have  grown  into  a  craze 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  333 

with  the  unhappy  man,  from  certain  words  which  occasionally 
escaped  him.  Keuben  came  to  the  conclusion  that  he  waited 
there  with  a  view  to  murdering  him,  should  he  appear.  lie  there- 
fore held  his  tongue  on  the  fact,  so  well  known  to  him,  that  Sam- 
uel Burton  was  safe  in  Australia,  —  the  more,  as  Sir  George 
never  permitted  him  on  any  account  whatever  to  share  his  vigil. 

Enough  about  Sir  George  Ilillyar  for  the  present.  I  am  al- 
most sorry  I  ever  undertook  to  tell  such  a  story  as  the  history  of 
his  life.  I  suppose  that,  even  in  a  novel,  telling  the  bare  and 
honest  truth  mu>t  do  good  somehow ;  but  at  times  the  task  felt 
very  loathsome.  I  had  some  faint  pleasure  in  writing  about  the 
miserable  man  as  long  as  there  was  some  element  of  hope  in  his 
history ;  but  I  sicken  at  the  task  now.  Knowing  the  man  and 
his  history,  I  knew  what  my  task  would  be  from  the  beginning. 
I  undertook  it,  and  must  go  on  with  it.  The  only  liberties  I  have 
taken  with  fact  have  been  to  elevate  his  rank  somewhat,  and  to 
dwell  with  an  eager  kindness  on  such  better  points  as  I  saw  in 
him.  But  writing  the  life  of  a  thoroughly  ill-conditioned  man, 
from  first  to  last,  is  weary  work. 

But  his  story  sets  one  thinking,  —  thinking  on  the  old,  old  sub- 
ject of  how  far  a  man's  character  is  influenced  by  education; 
which  is  rather  a  wide  one.  Suppose  George  Hillyar  had  been 
sent  to  Laleham  instead  of  to  Mr.  Easy's,  would  the  Doctor  have 
doue  anything  with  him  ? 

I  declare,  a  propos  des  hottes,  if  you  will,  that  there  is  a  certain 
sort  of  boy  with  a  nature  so  low,  so  sensual,  so  selfish,  so  sur- 
rounded with  a  case-hardened  shell  of  impenetrable  blockishness, 
that  if  you  try  to  pierce  this  armor  of  his,  and  draw  one  drop  f 
noble  blood  from  the  body  which  one  supposes  must  exist  within, 
you  lose  your  temper  and  your  time,  and  get  frantic  in  the  at- 
tempt. I  don't  say  that  these  boys  all  go  to  the  bad,  but  in  an 
educational  point  of  view  they  are  very  aggravating.  If  you 
miss  them  from  the  Sunday-school  and  want  to  see  anything 
more  of  them,  you  will  find  them  in  Feltham  Reformatory : 
among  the  upper  classes  the  future  of  these  boys  is  sometimes 
very  different.  "  Now  this  vice's  dagger  has  become  a  squire. 
Now  he  hath  land  and  beeves." 

I  do  not  say  that  George  Hillyar  had  been  one  of  the  lowest 
of  that  kind  of  boys ;  that  he  was  not  makes  the  only  interest  in 
his  history.  But  we  have  nearly  done  with  him.  It  will  be  a 
somewhat  plea.^anter  task  to  follow  once  more  the  fortunes  of  his 
quaint  little  wife,  and  see  what  an  extraordinary  prank  she  took 
it  into  her  head  to  play,  and  to  what  odd  consequences  that  prank 
led. 

As  soon  as  the  summer  came  on,  and  the  gardeners  had  filled 
the  great  bare  parterres  all   round  the  house  with  geraniums. 


334  THE   HILLYARS  AND   THE   BURTONS. 

calceolarias,  lobelias,  and  what  not,  then  Gerty  took  revenge  for 
her  winter's  imprisonment,  and  was  abroad  in  the  garden  and  the 
woods,  or  on  the  lake,  nearly  all  day.  About  this  time  also  she 
began  Baby's  education,  and  had  lessons  every  morning  for  about 
five  or  six  minutes.  At  this  time  also  Mrs.  Oxton  began  to  no- 
tice to  her  husband  that  Gerty's  letters  were  getting  uncommonly 
silly. 

"  Let  me  look  at  one,"  said  the  Secretary,  from  his  easy-chair. 

"When  he  read  it  his  brow  grew  clouded.  "  She  never  was  so 
silly  as  this  before,  was  she,  my  love  ?  " 

"  Never.  And  why  this  long  silence  about  George  ?  He  is 
neglectins;  her.     I  wish  she  was  here." 

"  So  do  I,  by  Jove !  But  she  seems  pretty  happy,  too.  I  can't 
make  it  out." 

Old  Sir  George  had  got  the  works  of  that  great  clock  called 
Stanlake  into  such  perfect  order  that,  once  wind  it  up,  and  it 
would  go  till  the  works  wore  out.  The  servants  were  so  old  and 
so  perfectly  drilled  that  really  Gerty  had  but  little  to  do.  Her 
rambles  never  extended  beyond  the  estate,  but  were  always  made 
with  immense  energy,  for  some  very  trivial  objcjct.  At  first  it 
was  the  cowslips,  and  then  Reuben  taught  the  boy  the  art  of 
birds'-nesting,  and  the  boy  taught  his  mother ;  and  so  nothing 
would  suit  her  but  she  must  string  eggs.  However,  as  the  sum- 
mer went  on,  she  got  far  less  flighty.  And  the  Secretary  and  his 
wife  noticed  the  change  in  her  letters,  and  were  more  easy  about 
her. 

The  next  winter  passed  in  the  same  total  seclusion  as  the  last. 
Mr.  Compton  saw  a  little  change  for  the  worse  in  her  towards 
the  end  of  it.  He  now  gathered  from  her  conversation  that  she 
had  somehow  got  the  impression  that  George  was  gone  away  with 
Mrs.  Nalder.  He  elicited  this  one  day  after  tliat  affectionate 
woman  had,  hearing  for  the  first  time  Gerty  was  alone,  come  rag- 
ing over  to  see  her.  Gerty  told  him  that  she  thought  it  rather 
bold  on  the  part  of  that  brazen-faced  creature  to  come  and  ring 
at  the  door  in  a  brougham,  and  a?k  if  she  was  dead,  after  taking 
away  her  husband  from  her.  She  did  not  seem  angry  or  jealous 
in  the  least.  Mr.  Compton  did  not  know,  as  we  do,  that  her  sus- 
picions of  Mrs.  Nalder  were  only  the  product  of  a  weak  brain  in 
a  morbid  state :  if  he  had,  he  would  have  been  more  disturbed. 
But,  assuming  the  accusation  to  be  true,  he  did  not  half  like  the 
quiet  way  in  which  she  took  it.  "  She  will  become  silly,  if  she 
don't  mind,"  he  said. 

The  summer  went  on,  and  Gerty  went  on  in  the  same  manner 
as  she  had  done  in  the  last.  It  happened  that  on  the  1 7th  of 
August  Mr.  Compton  went  and  stayed  with  her  at  Stanlake,  and 
settled  a  little  business,  to  which  she  seemed  singularly  inatten- 


THE  IIILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  835 

tive.  Nay,  she  seemed  incapable  of  attention.  She  talked  to 
him  about  a  book  she  had  taken  a  groat  fancy  to,  "  AVhite's  His- 
tory of  Selborne,"  which  Reuben  had  introduced  to  the  boy,  and 
the  boy  to  his  mother ;  indeed,  all  her  new  impressions  now  came 
through  her  boy.  She  told  him  about  the  migration  of  the  swal- 
lows, —  how  that  the  swifts  all  went  to  a  day,  \vere  all  gone  by 
the  20th  of  August.  Some  said  they  went  south  ;  but  some  said 
they  took  their  young  and  wont  under  water  with  them,  to  wait  till 
the  cold,  cruel  winter  was  over,  and  the  sun  shone  out  once  more. 
This  conversation  made  Mr.  Compton  very  anxious.  He 
thought  she  was  getting  very  flighty,  and  wondered  how  it  would 
end.  He  thought  her  eye  was  unsettled.  On  the  evening  of  the 
21st  of  August  the  Stanlake  butler  came  to  him,  called  him  out 
from  dinner,  and  told  him  that  her  ladyship  and  the  young  gen- 
tleman had  been  missing  for  twenty-four  hours. 


CHAPTER    LXII. 

GERTY'S  ANABASIS. 

The  first  thing  Mr.  Compton  did,  on  hearing  of  Lady  Hillyar's 
disappearance,  was  to  take  a  cab  and  dash  off  to  the  Nalders'  in 
Grosvenor  Place,  in  the  wild  hope  that  Mrs.  Nalder  might  know 
something  about  Sir  George  Hillyar's  wdiereabouts,  and  that  she 
might  enable  him  to  communicate  personally  with  him.  The 
house  was  blazing  with  lights,  and  the  carriages  were  flashing 
rapidly  up  to  the  door;  but  kind  Nalder  came  down  to  him. 
Seeing  no  one  but  a  gentle  and  mild-looking  old  gentleman  be- 
fore him,  he  ventured  to  talk  his  native  language,  which  he 
would  not  have  ventured  to  do  for  his  life  in  his  own  drawing- 
room,  and  explained  to  Mr.  Compton  that  Mrs.  N.  had  got  on  a 
tarnation  tall  hop,  —  a  regular  Old  Tar  River  breakdown;  and, 
seeing  Mr.  Compton  was  in  full  dress,  he  hoped  his  business 
would  keep,  and  that  he  would  jine  'em  and  shake  a  toe.  Hav- 
ing relieved  his  heart  by  so  much  of  the  dear  old  prairie  talk,  and 
seeing  Mr.  Compton  was  anxious  and  distressed,  he  began  to  speak 
in  diplomatic  American,  —  absolutely  perfect  English,  sli*htly 
Frenchified  in  style,  and  spoken  a  little  through  the  nose ;  Eng- 
lish which,  under  the  present  presidency,  seems  to  be  going  out 
of  fashion,  as  Webster's  English  gives  way  to  Lincoln's,  and 
M'Clellan's  to  Grant's. 

He  was  very  much  distressed  at  what  Mr.  Compton  told  him. 


336  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

Lady  Hillyar's  jealousy  against  Mrs.  Nalder,  to  which  he  had  so 
delicately  alhuled,  was  an  old  source  of  distress  to  him  and  his 
wife.  As  for  their  having  any  knowledge  whatever  of  Sir  George 
Hillyar's  whereabouts,  they  liad  actually  none  at  all ;  and,  if  he 
miglit  S])eak  without  giving  offence,  had  no  wish  for  any. 

"  As  for  your  suspicion  of  her  having  drowned  herself,  my  dear 
sir,"  Nalder  continued,  "  I  would  banish  that  from  my  mind  ut- 
terly. What  earthly  reason  can  she  have  for  such  a  proceeding  ? 
Pooh,  pooh,  my  dear  sir,  —  if  you  will  allow  me  to  speak  so  to  a 
man  so  much  older  than  myself,  —  you  are  fanciful.  Because  a 
woman  talks  about  swallows  going  under  water,  is  she,  therefore, 
necessarily  to  follow  the  precedent  herself?  " 

Mr.  Compton  stood  silent  for  half  a  minute ;  before  he  had 
time  to  speak,  Mr.  Nalder  rammed  both  his  hands  into  the  bot- 
tom of  his  breeches'  pocket,  and  said,  in  that  loud,  snarling  whine 
which  it  has  pleased  the  Americans  to  adopt  in  moments  of 
emergency,  — 

"  I  '11  tell  you  whawt,  lawyer :  I  '11  bet  New  York  against  New 
Orleans,  or  Chicago  against  Kingston,  that  she  has  bolted  to  Aus- 
traley,  back  to  her  sister." 

So  she  had.  But,  first  of  all,  Mr.  Compton  insisted  on  believ- 
ing that  she  had  drowned  herself,  —  in  consequence  of  that  un- 
lucky remark  of  hers  about  tlie  swallows.  Next,  he  insisted  that 
she  could  never  have  started  for  Australia  without  telling  him, 
which  was  equally  nonsensical.  Thirdly,  he  advanced  the  theory 
that  she  had  n't  got  any  money,  quite  forgetting  that  George  had 
allowed  her  a  privy  purse  of  £400,  of  which  she  probably  had  n't 
spent  £100.  And  lastly,  just  when  he  had  determined  to  make 
strict  inquiries  about  the  London  Docks,  Gerty  was  quietly  ar- 
ranging her  cabin  on  board  the  Baroda  at  Southampton. 

She  would  not  face  another  winter;  she  had  wit  left  to  see 
that  her  wit  was  going,  and  that  it  would  be  wiser  to  put  herself 
under  the  protection  of  the  Oxtons.  She  was  also  uncertain  of 
lier  position.  She  could  not  tell  whether  any  of  them  would  pre- 
vent her,  or  whether  they  had  the  right ;  so  she  determined  to 
have  no  argument  about  the  matter.  One  evening  after  dark, 
taking  no  more  with  her  than  she  could  carry,  she  managed, 
sometimes,  carrying  Baby  and  sometimes  letting  him  walk,  to 
get  across  country  to  a  station  on  the  main  line  of  the  South 
Western,  where  she  was  not  known,  in  time  for  the  last  train, 
and  by  it  went  on  straight  to  Southampton.  The  next  morning 
she  quietly  bought  her  luggage,  and  moved  to  another  hotel  to 
avoid  attention.  In  a  week  the  good  ship  went  thundering  out 
between  the  Shingles  and  the  Needles ;  and,  when  the  great 
chalk  wall  was  passed,  and  Alum  Bay  was  only  a  wonderful^  re- 
collection, Gerty  felt  that  she  was  free. 


THE  HILLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS.  337 

She  had  taken  passage  onlj^  two  days  before  the  ship  sailed, 
and  had  sense  enough  to  use  her  own  name,  considering  that 
fV'wer  liberties  would  be  taken  with  Lady  Ilillyar  than  with  Mrs. 
Hilly ar.  She  sat  next  thc^  cai)tain  at  dinner,  and  seldom  spoke 
to  any  one  else.  Now  slie  had  got  among  other  people  once 
more,  she  found  how  nervous,  timid,  and  hesitating  these  two 
years  of  seclusion  had  made  her.  She  was  afi'aid  to  sj)eak  for 
fear  of  saying  some  unutterable  nonsense. 

At  Alexandria  some  more  Australians  joined  them,  making 
tlie  whole  number  up  to  nine  ;  but  they  were  lo.-t  among  tiie  In- 
dians. And  such  as  did  know  anything  of  her,  only  said  that 
old  Neville's  daucrhter  w^as  givins:  herself  airs  since  she  had  mar- 
ried  a  title  ;  and  so,  after  the  Australians  got  into  their  own 
steamer  at  Point  de  Galle,  and  were  alone  together,  none  of 
them  troubled  themselves  about  the  little  fine  lady  of  Cooks- 
land. 

Gerty  had  been  accustomed  to  consider  Melbourne  a  low  sort 
of  place,  where  the  bourgeoisie  were  admitted  into  society,  and 
you  never  knew  whom  you  might  meet ;  but  when,  between  Sand- 
ridge  and  Emerald  Hill,  she  came  on  the  first  clump  of  gum- 
trees,  with  bracken  fern  growing  beneath  them,  she  loved  it,  and 
would  love  it  forever.  It  might  be  a  low,  upstart  place,  fifty 
years  younger  than  Sydney,  full  of  all  sorts  of  people,  nurse  of 
all  sorts  of  dangerous  opinions  ;  but  it  was  Australia  still.  AVap- 
ping  is  not  a  nice  place,  —  nay,  it  is  a  very  nasty  place  indeed ; 
but  one  will  love  it  because  it  is  sometimes  the  first  place  that  one 
puts  one's  foot  on  in  England.  It  was  not  very  difficult  for 
Gerty  to  fall  in  love  with  dear  old  Melbourne,  in  spite  of  her 
having  been  trained  by  that  veritable  old  squatter,  her  father,  to 
consider  it  the  City  of  Satan. 

The  passenger-list  in  the  A?-gifs  announced  the  arrival  of  Lady 
Hillyar,  and,  moreover,  that  she  was  at  the  '•  Prince  of  Wales." 

Lady  H drove  over  in  a  few  days  from  Toorak  to  call  on 

her,  but  she  was  gone.  She  had  dismissed  her  maid,  and  hired 
an  open  car  as  far  as  Albury,  leaving  most  of  her  luggage  be- 
hind. 

Lady  H thought  it  very  sti-ange  that  Lady  Hillyar  had 

not  gone  by  steamer  to  Sydney,  and  from  thence,  by  New  Cale- 
donia, New  Zealand,  Queensland,  (then  called  Moi-eton  Bay.) 
New  Hungary,  New  United  Italy,  New  Poland,  New  Tartary, 
New  Wapping.  and  New  Beloochistan,  on  to  Cooksland  ;  but, 
supposing  that  Lady  Hillyar  was  tired  of  the  sea,  she  was  not  so 
much  surprised  after  all  at  her  going  overland ;  for  the  distance 
between  Albury  and  Cooksland  was  not  so  very  great.  Only  a 
very  small  strip  of  New  South  Wales  interposed. 

Every  school-boy  knows,  or,  according  to  the  latest  critii;^! 
15  V 


338  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

formula,  would  be  flo;;ge(l  for  not  knowing,  that  Albury  is  on 
the  river  Murray,  and  is  the  last  town  in  the  republic  of  Victo- 
ria, and  that  across  the  river  you  come  into  New  South  Wales. 
But  every  school-boy  does  not  know,  inasmuch  as  no  one  but 
myself  is  in  possession  of  the  fact,  that  by  holding  to  a  native 
path  through  the  bush  from  that  place,  in  a  direction  north- 
eastern by  south,  you  reach  the  frontier  of  Cooksland,  by  stout 
walking,  within  three  days.  Since  the  two-and-sixpeuny  duty 
on  gold,  this  track  has  been  much  used  by  smugglers ;  and,  if  the 
Victorian  Government  will  take  advice,  they  will  look  to  the 
matter.  In  the  good  time  coming,  when  the  Australian  Federa- 
tion set  up  on  their  own  account,  and,  sickened  with  prosperity, 
feel  the  necessity  of  a  little  fighting,  they  need  not  despair  of 
findiuGT  a  casus  belli  among  themselves.  The  difference  of  inter- 
colonial  tariffs  will  make  as  handsome  a  cause  for  a  very  pretty 
squabble  as  the  Devil  himself  could  desire.  "  General  Peter 
Lalor  crossed  the  Murry  yesterday,  and  attacked  the  enemy's 
earthworks  at  Three  INIile  Creek.  He  was  forced  to  retire  with 
a  loss  of  400  men.  The  Sydney-siders'  loss  is  considered  by 
him  to  have  been  far  greater."  How  pretty  that  will  read ! 
But  we  have  read  some  queerer  things  than  that  lately  from 
America. 

But  Gerty?  She  discharged  her  ear  at  Albury,  paying  the 
man  forty-five  pounds.  She  had  made  her  resolution ;  she  had 
determined  to  umlk  across  into  Cooksland. 

The  Bush  had  no  more  terrors  for  her  than  Regent  Street  has 
for  you.  If  she  met  a  Bush  hand,  and  her  honor  was  in  ques- 
tion, why  she  had  provided  herself  with  a  revolver.  It  was 
mentioned  months  ago  that  one  of  the  two  great  recollections 
of  her  life  was  first  being  taken  to  a  ball  at  Sydney ;  and  an- 
other was  hinted  at  only,  as  we  intended  to  reserve  it  tor  this 
place.  One  summer's  day,  when  she  was  a  child,  after  she  and 
Aggy  had  been  gathering  quantongs  by  the  creek,  her  father,  old 
Mr.  Morton,  Mr.  Dawson,  and  young  Clayton,  had  come  suddenly 
home,  said  something  which  frightened  their  mother  out  of  her 
wits,  had  barricaded  the  door,  and  loaded  their  guns.  Soon  after 
they  began  shooting  at  some  men  outside,  and  the  men  shot  at 
them  through  the  windows,  and  broke  the  claret  jug  on  the  side- 
board. She  remembered  that  these  men,  the  bush-rangers,  had 
broken  in  the  door,  and  that  Mr.  Dawson  had  shot  down  two  of 
them,  and  killed  another  by  bending  his  head  back,  and  that  her 
mother  had  kissed  Mr.  Dawson  afterwards,  —  that  she  had  been 
sorry  for  the  poor  men,  as  she  was  for  tiie  inhabitants  of  Jericho, 
who  had  not  shot  into  any  one's  windows,  or  at  least  it  was  n't 
mentioned,  —  that  her  mother  was  very  angry  with  her,  and 
said  that  a  girl  who  had  n't  gumption  enough  to  drive  a  knife 


THE  niLLYARS  AND   THE  BURTONS.  339 

into  a  bush-ranger's  heart  would  not  have  the  courage  to  drive 
it  into  her  own,  and  was  unfit  to  live.  Gerty  had  learnt  from 
hor  mother  how  to  defi'ud  licr  honor. 

How  quaint  that  old  Aii.-traliau  life  seems  to  one !  High  re- 
finement in  many  cases,  but  the  devil  always  at  the  door.  Not, 
as  in  India,  a  sudden,  furious,  unexpected  devil,  tearing  all  to 
pieces ;  but  a  recognized  devil,  standing  always  ready.  "  This 
is  the  last  of  that  seal  of  Lafitte,  sir,  and  the  blacks  are  crowd- 
ing round  and  looking  awkward."  "  The  Illustrated  News  is 
come,  sir,  but  no  Spectator  this  mail,  and  Mike  Howe  is  out 
again,  sir,  and  has  stuck  up  Dolloy's,  and  burnt  one  of  the  chil- 
dren, sir.  Do  you  think  he  will  take  us  next,  or  the  Mac- 
donalds  ? "  Those  are  the  sort  of  little  mares'-tails  you  get  at 
the  outside  edge  of  that  vast  cloud  of  English  influence  which 
has  now  overshadowed  fully  one-sixth  of  the  human  race.  And, 
until  you  have  been  to  the  edge,  you  will  find  it  difficult  fully  to 
appreciate  the  extreme  meteoric  disturbance  which  you  will  find 
there.  Look  at  the  case  of  a  certain  family  the  other  day  in 
Queensland,  —  refined,  hospitable  })eople,  beloved  by  every  one, — 
the  young  squire,  sent  over  to  Rugby,  where  he  turned  out 
champion  cricketer.  They  all  got  suddenly,  ruthlessly  murdered 
by  the  blacks  one  summer's  evening. 

Were  there  any  blacks  on  Gerty's  track  ?  Plenty.  Was  she 
alarmed  about  them  ?  Not  the  least  in  the  world.  There  were 
none  but  tame  blacks  on  that  line  of  country ;  there  was  not  a 
wild  black  within  a  hundred  miles,  —  they  had  all  been  tamed 
ever  so  long.  And  the  process  ?  Borrow  Chief  Justice  Therry's 
book,  and  read  pages  271  to  278,  and  see  if  you  can  sleep 
after  it. 

Gerty  did  not  care  for  the  blacks  one  halfpenny.  She  rather 
looked  forward  to  meeting  some  of  them,  to  have  a  good  ''  patter  " 
with  them,  and  see  if  she  had  that  extraordinary  comical  patois 
for  which  she  was  once  famous,  —  the  Romany  of  Australia,  — 
the  dialect  used  by  the  two  races  in  communicating  with  one 
another;  nearly  all  English,  but  which  is  made  so  wonderfully 
funny  by  the  absence  of  all  declension  and  conjugation  in  the 
native  language,  and  which  forces  the  adept  to  use  only  the  first 
person  singular  (or  rather  the  native  substitute  for  it,  "mine"), 
and  the  third ;  and  confines  him  mostly  to  the  present  tense.* 
Gerty  was  anxious  to  see  if  she  had  forgotten  her  lilackfellow. 

Starting  from  Albury,  she  came  at  once  into  Rabelais  county, 
where  she  lay  one  night  at  the  house  of  Count  Raminagrobis, 

*  English.  "  I  ?aw  a  large  number  of  horses  beside  tlie  creek."  Bhickfelhw. 
"  Mine  make  a  light  eightv-four  (generally,  I  regret  to  say,  a<liective)  horses 
along  a  creek."  English.  '"'I  do  not  think  it  was  he."  Blackftllow.  "Baal 
mine  think  it  that  one." 


340  THE  HILLYARS  AND   THE  BURTONS. 

an  aged  French  squatter,  who  told  her  fortune  in  four  different 
ways,  each  of  which  came  different.  She  aot  into  Hawthorne 
county  next  morning,  and  spent  the  night  with  Mrs.  Prynne  and 
her  charming  espiegle  daughter  from  New  England.  After  this 
she  passed  through  the  great  Grevillia  scrub,  where  she  left  part 
of  her  gown  and  her  few  remaining  wits,  and,  crossing  the  river 
Roebuck,  came  into  Cooksland,  in  Jones  county,  and  passed  the 
night  at  Blogg's  station,  on  the  Flour  Bag  Creek  ;  delighted  to 
find  herself  once  more  with  more  familiar  and  less  queer  people, 
in  tlie  land  of  her  birth. 

She  determined  to  make  for  the  Barkers'  station,  that  being 
the  nearest  where  she  was  known ;  and  three  glorious  spring 
days  she  spent  in  getting  there,  —  three  days  passed  in  intro- 
ducing Baby  to  the  flowers,  the  animals,  and  the  birds.  The 
third  evening,  just  at  dark,  she  stood  on  the  summit  of  Cape 
Wilberforce,  and  could  see  the  lights  of  the  town  below  her  on 
the  other  side  of  the  Erskine.  There  was  a  larsje  light  about 
two  miles  to  the  left,  —  the  light,  in  fact,  of  the  new  copper 
works  ;  but  between  her  and  the  river  there  was  only  one  soli- 
tary light,  about  a  mile  below  her,  towards  which  she  determined 
to  make,  to  ask  the  way  across  the  river ;  for  she  knew  she  must 
cross  the  river  and  pass  right  tlirough  the  township  before  she 
could  reach  the  Barkers,  even  if  that  were  possible  to-night. 

So  she  picked  her  way  down  in  the  dark,  carrying  Baby 
pickapack,  until  she  came  to  some  rails,  over  which  they  got,  and 
came  into  a  thicket  of  wood,  a  very  dark  place  undergrown  with 
shrubs.  They  had  lost  the  light  now,  but  very  soon  came  sud- 
denly upon  it  again  close  to  them  ;  at  which  moment  a  large 
dog  came  out  at  them  and  began  barking  furiously. 

"  Don't  be  frightened,  love,"  said  Gerty  to  Baby ;  "  it  is  only 
a  sheep-dog  ;  he  won't  hurt  us."  To  the  dog,  —  "  Tou  '11  catch  it, 
sir.  1  '11  give  it  to  you,  sir,  and  so  I  tell  you.  How  dare  you  ? 
Come  here,  sir ;  do  you  hear,  come  here  this  instant,  and  don't 
let  me  hear  another  word  out  of  your  head." 

The  dog  came  wagging  his  tail,  and  Gerty  took  him  by  the 
scruff  of  his  neck  and  sla])ped  him.  "  If  you  are  in  earnest  with 
them  dear,"  she  said,  with  that  careful  attention  to  the  child's 
education  which  she  had  always  shown,  "  you  should  have  a  tea- 
stick,  and  take  them  by  the  tail,  raising  their  hind  legs  off  the 
ground,  so  that  they  can't  bite  you,  and  lay  on  like  old  goose- 
berry. Now,  dear,  I  will  hold  him ;  do  you  go  into  the  hut,  and 
say  that  Lady  Hillyar  is  outside  and  wishes  to  be  guided  to  Mr. 
Barker's.     Come,  that 's  a  man." 

Baby  was  very  valiant.  Gerty  saw  him  advance  boldly  to  the 
door,  which  was  ajar,  push  it  open,  and  pass  on  into  the  well-lit 
room  beyond. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  341 


CHAPTER    LXIII. 

SAMUEL  BURTON  GETS  A  FRIGHT. 

Samuel  Burton  was  prospering  amazingly.  In  addition  to 
the  plunder  which  he  had  netted  from  his  dexterous  robberies  at 
Stanlake,  he  had  made  a  great  hit  just  latterly.  He  had  bought 
a  lot  of  twenty  acres,  with  frontage,  on  the  Erskine,  for  £200, 
and  now  the  13urnt  Hut  Co[)per  Mining  Company  had,  after  a 
long  wrangle,  consented  to  pay  him  £2,300  for  it,  that  they  might 
build  the  terminus  to  their  tramway  thereon. 

Yet  he  was  far  from  being  more  easy  in  his  mind  than  hereto- 
fore. Had  any  one  told  the  miserable  desperate  hound,  who 
had  sneaked  into  George  Hillyar's  office  so  few  years  ago,  and 
borrowed  thirty  pounds  of  him,  that  he  would  have  risen  to  such 
a  height  of  prosperity,  he  would  have  laughed  at  him.  Bnt 
here  he  was,  not  only  comfortable  for  life,  but  holding  over  Sir 
George  Hillyar  a  power  worth  thousands  a  year  to  him :  and  yet 
he  was  getting  desperate  and  ferocious. 

He  was  a  most  awful  scoundrel.  There  could  be  no  doubt  of 
that.  It  may  be  true  that  there  is  an  average  amount  of  crime 
to  be  committed  in  a  certain  number  of  years,  and  therefore  it 
don't  much  matter  how  it  is  done  or  who  does  it,  as  a  contem- 
porary wittily  put  it  the  other  day  ;  yet  still,  if  you  would  carry 
Buckleism  to  this  extreme  length,  you  will  find  that  the  little 
efforts  after  good,  and  the  better  instincts  of  the  very  worst  men, 
are  very  well  worth  careful  examination. 

Now  this  utter  scoundrel,  Burton,  for  instance,  had  his  good 
instincts.  The  man  was  good-natured  and  fond  of  children. 
He  was  grateful  and  generous ;  and,  what  is  more  to  the  pur- 
pose just  now,  his  devotion  to  his  supposed  son  Reuben  was  a 
passion  with  him.  Sir  George  Hillyar  had  used  him  and 
almsed  him  for  his  own  ends,  but  he  had  retained  a  kind  of  dog- 
like faithfulness  towards  that  man,  until  he  had  stepped  in  be- 
tween him  and  Reuben  ;  and,  now,  moping  in  solitude,  or  worse 
than  solitude,  his  old  love  for  Sir  George  was  rapidly  giving  way 
to  ferocious  hatred.  He  felt  sure,  and  he  was  right,  that  no  one 
but  Sir  George  Hillyar,  —  who,  as  he  knew,  hated  and  distrusted 
him,  —  could  have  stepped  in  between  honest,  kindly  Reuben  and 
himself,  and  produced  this  estrangement. 

His  most  affectionate  api)eals  to  Reuben  had  been  left  long 
unanswered,  and  now  were  only  answered  by  letters  shorter  and 


342  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

colder  time  after  time.  Reuben  had  loved  liim  once,  and  risked 
all  for  him ;  and  the  poor  wretch,  wlio  had  tried  what  he  called 
reli<>;ion,  and  had  found  that  the  lowest  and  wildest  form  of  it 
enjoined  a  practice  far,  far  beyond  what  was  possible  to  him 
now,  felt  more  and  more  every  day,  as  his  wasted  life  drew  to- 
wards its  close,  the  want  of  some  one  being  who  could  care  for 
him.  Reuben  would  have  cared  for  him,  and  tended  him,  and 
seen  him  kindly  to  the  dark  dreadful  threshold,  which,  as  he 
fully  believed,  was  the  threshold  of  everlasting  torment.  Hell, 
since  his  last  feeble  effort  at  reformation,  he  considered  as  cer- 
tain ;  but  there  had  been  something  left  in  this  world  ;  there 
had  been  Reuben's  kind  pleasant  ministrations  to  the  very  end. 
Sir  George,  whom  he  had  served  so  faithfully  for  good  or  evil, 
had  stepped  in,  and  taken  this  away. 

In  his  lonely  despair,  he  vowed  a  terrible  vengeance.  It  was 
easy  vowing ;  but  how  was  he  to  execute  it  ?  A  few  months 
ago,  he  might,  as  he  thought,  have  struck  the  blow,  by  placing 
the  will  in  Erne's  hands,  just  at  the  time  when  Erne  had  been  so 
kind  to  him ;  but,  partly  from  some  lingering  reluctance  to  ruin 
his  old  master,  partly  from  natural  indecision,  and  partly  from  a 
sneaking  miser-like  love  of  possessing  unused  power,  he  had 
hesitated.  And  now  Erne  was  gone  South  to  die  ;  nay,  rumors 
had  come  that  he  was  dead;  and  what  was  his  precious  will 
worth  then  ? 

And  there  was  another  thing  which  terrified  the  poor  wretch 
night  and  day.  He  was  afraid  of  Sir  George  Hillyar,  physically 
afraid.  Give  him  a  knife,  and  give  any  other  man  a  cudgel,  and 
he  would  face  it  out.  In  that  case  he  had  the  courage  of  ex- 
perience. But  Sir  George  Hillyar  was  a  bold  man,  the  pupils 
of  whose  eyes  would  fix  themselves  steadily  when  he  looked  at 
you,  and  which  pupils  would  suddenly  dilate,  just  before  the 
snarl  and  the  blow  came  together,  as  the  thunder  snap  and  the 
lightning  did,  when  the  storm  was  directly  overhead.  And  he 
was  an  unscrupulous  man  too  ;  so,  sometimes,  Samuel  Burton 
would  wake  in  the  night  in  a  perspiration  of  fear,  and  think  that 
he  heard  George  Hillyar  moving  towards  him  in  the  dark  to 
murder  him. 

He  would  not  sleep  alone.  But  he  •  had  no  friend  in  Romilly. 
He  was  known  for  a  convict,  and,  although  they  treated  him 
with  civility,  nay,  with  more  than  civility,  they  would  have 
none  of  him.  Tim  Reilly  (the,  I  was  going  to  say,  horse-stealer, 
but  won't,)  would  have  nothing  at  all  to  do  with  him.  Tim 
had,  like  his  great  compatriot,  O'ConncU,  driven  a  vast  number 
of  coaches  and  four  through,  at  all  events,  one  Act  of  Parlia- 
ment,—  that  against  horse-stealing.  Dan  O'Connell  had  driven, 
or  was  prepared  to  drive,  through  the  whole  lot  of  them.     He 


THE  UILLYARS  AND   THE  BURTONS.  343 

beat  Tim  O'Reilly  in  this  respect,  but  Tim  beat  bira  in  another  ; 
Tim  always  stole  the  horses  before  he  got  on  the  box.  But 
Tim  had  never  been  convicted,  and  would  not  lower  himself  by 
consorting  with  Samuel  Burton. 

It  was  mentioned  before  in  these  pages  that,  when  he  first  in- 
vaded Cooksland,  old  Barker  found  an  old  convict  shepherd, 
with  a  view  to  confining  the  criminal  contamination  within  one 
single  hut.  Samuel  Burton  now,  for  want  of  another,  got  this 
old  man  to  come  and  live  with  him  ;  and  I  need  not  say  that, 
the  longer  he  lived  there,  the  more  pleasant  the  old  jail-slang 
became  to  him,  and  the  more  surely  every  spark  of  good  in  him 
got  trampled  out. 

Still  there  were  times,  even  now,  when  he  would  get  ashamed 
of  his  life  with  this  ribald  old  sinner,  and  think  of  the  life  he 
might  lead  with  Reuben,  as  of  something  higher  and  purer,  get- 
ting further  and  further  from  him  every  day. 

One  night  they  were  sitting  before  the  fire  talking  together.  — 
Bah !  let  us  go  to  Tennyson,  — 

•*  Fear  not  thou  to  loose  thy  tongue, 
Let  thy  hoary  fancies  free; 
What  is  loathsome  to  the  young, 
Savors  well  to  thee  and  me. 

"  Chant  me  now  some  wicked  stave, 
Till  th}"-  drooping  spirits  rise, 
And  the  glowworm  of  the  grave 
Glimmer  in  thy  rheumy  eyes." 

Let  us  leave  the  conversation  of  two  depraved  old  men  alone. 
They  were  talking  on  together,  each  chuckle  getting  more  fiend- 
ish than  the  last  one,  when  the  elder  rose  up  and  started  back, 
with  a  fri«:htful  and  savaije  oath ;  and  Samuel  Burton  stasrsei-ed 
trembling  against  the  wall,  and  leant  there,  with  his  face  worked 
into  an  abject  expression  of  the  extremest  terror. 

For  there  stood  between  them  a  most  beautiful  child,  with 
liffht  waving  hair  like  an  angel's,  dressed  all  in  white.  It  stood 
full  in  the  fire-light,  and  its  little  hands  were  spread  towards  the 
blazing  logs,  as  if  in  prayer. 


344  THE  niLLYAES  AND  THE  BURTONS. 


CHAPTER    LXIV. 

SAMUEL  BURTON'S  RESOLUTION. 

Then  the  man  who  had  savagely  cursed  this  beautiful  and 
holy  apparition  as  something  godlike,  and  therefore  utterly  ab- 
horrent to  his  nature,  —  this  man  relapsed  into  moody,  defiant 
silence ;  but  the  man  who  had  only  trembled  before  it,  the  man 
who  could  still  feel  terrified  and  abashed  at  the  contrast  between 
his  own  black  soul  and  the  sacred  purity  of  the  child  before  him, 
—  this  man  gained  courage  to  advance  towards  it,  and  to  speak 
tenderly  and  kindly  to  it. 

Little  George  had  knelt  before  the  fire,  and  was  eagerly  warm- 
ing his  hands,  for  the  night  was  chill.  Still  the  fancy  held  with 
Samuel  Burton  that  the  child  was  kneeling  before  a  blazing  altar, 
and  praying  for  him. 

"  My  dear,"  he  said,  "  have  you  lost  your  way  in  the  wood,  and 
shall  I  take  you  home  ?  " 

"  Mamma  lost  her  way,  and  when  the  dog  came  out  she  beat 
it.  Not  so  hard  as  Beuben  beats  the  setters  though,  for  it  did 
not  cry  out." 

"  Who  is  mamma,  dear,  and  where  is  she  ?  " 

"  I  am  cold,  and  I  think  I  have  wet  my  right  foot  in  the  wood. 
I  want  to  warm  my  hands,  and  then  I  will  remember  the  message 
and  go  back  to  her.  She  won't  mind  waiting  while  I  warm  my 
hands." 

"  Who  is  mamma,  dear  ?  And  you  can  remember  the  message 
while  you  warm  your  hands,"  said  Samuel,  with  increasing  in- 
terest. 

"  Oh,  yes,"  said  Baby,  "  I  can  remember.  Mamma  is  Lady 
Hillyar.  She  is  outside  now,  and  she  wants  some  one  to  take 
her  up  to  Mr.  Barker's." 

"My  dear,"  said  Samuel  Burton,  eagerly  kneeling  beside  the 
child,  "  do  you  know  Reuben  ?  " 

"  You  silly  man,"  laughed  Baby  ;  "  of  course  I  do." 

"  Where  is  Reuben,  dear  ?  " 

"  At  Stanlake,  of  course.     I  must  go  back  to  mamma." 

"  One  word,  dearest.     Where  is  papa  ?  " 

"  Papa  is  in  Italy." 

"  Does  papa  never  come  to  Stanlake  ?  Does  papa  never  see 
Reuben  ?  " 

"No,  never.  He  never  comes  to  Stanlake.  I  must  go  to 
mamma,  please ;  take  me  to  mamma." 


THE  HILLYAES  AND  THE  BURTONS.  ,         345 

Samuel  had  heard  enough.  He  seized  a  candle,  and  rushed 
out  of  the  hut,  exclaiming  aloud,  with  suddenly  assumed  excite- 
ment, — 

"  Good  heavens !  Her  ladyship  alone  in  the  bush,  and  the 
dew  falling.  INIadam !  My  lady !  For  God's  sake,  answer ! 
Wliere  is  your  ladyship  ?     Oh  dear,  dear  me  !  " 

''  Here  I  am,"  replied  Gerty  complacently,  coming  out  of  the 
darkness  with  the  sheep-dog  leaping  upon  her ;  "  I  was  wonder- 
ing what  was  keeping  the  dear  child  so  long." 

"Dear!  dear!  your  ladyship  will  have  caught  your  death  of 
cold.  Pray  walk  in  to  the  fire.  Allow  me  as  an  old  bushman 
to  caution  your  ladyship  against  these  October  dews ;  though  in- 
deed, my  lady,  you  should  know  the  climate  as  well  as  I.  I  sup- 
pose Sir  George  has  gone  on  to  Mr.  Barker's." 

'*  Sir  George  is  in  Europe,"  answered  Gerty.  "  But  I  wish 
you  would  take  me  up  to  Mr.  Barker's,  for  I  am  tired,  and  they 
will  be  gone  to  bed.  Hallo !  "  she  continued,  turning  to  the 
older  convict,  "  why  there 's  old  Ben !  I  thought  you  were 
shepherding  for  Mr.  Barker..  I  ain't  going  to  have  your  com- 
pany up  there,  you  know,  and  so  I  don't  deceive  you." 

The  old  wretch  gave  a  grin  and  growl,  but  Gerty  turned  away 
from  him  with  calm  contempt. 

"  I  beg  your  ladyship's  pardon,"  said  Samuel,  "  but  it  is  a  good 
five  miles  to  the  station,  and  it  would  be  almost  too  much  for  you 
to-night." 

"  I  ain't  going  to  stop  here,  you  know,"  said  Gerty.  "  Likely 
indeed ! " 

"  But  could  not  your  ladyship  go  to  the  Burtons'  for  to-night  ? 
It  is  close  by." 

"  You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  they  are  here  still.  Why  I 
thought  they  had  found  a  mine  and  gone." 

"  They  are  living  within  two  hundred  yards,  my  lady.  Only 
across  the  water.     Will  you  follow  me  ?  " 

She  went  out  after  him  into  the  night  air,  and  felt  it  strike 
deadly  chill  upon  her.  She  thought  of  what  Samuel  had  said 
about  the  heavy  October  dews,  and  thought  she  must  have  caught 
cold.  She  could  scarcely  follow  Samuel,  though  he  walked  close 
before  her.  Baby  had  hold  of  her  skirts,  but  she  felt  about  in 
the  darkness  till  she  got  his  hand,  and  said :  "  It  is  only  two  hun- 
dred yards,  dear,  and  we  shall  be  among  the  Burtons.  Thank 
God,  it  did  not  happen  sooner." 

They  crossed  a  wooden  bridge,  and  came  into  the  street  of  the 
town,  the  lights  of  which  were  dim  in  Gerty's  foiling  eyes. 
Somehow,  immediately  after,  she  was  in  a  pretty  drawing-room, 
and  a  group  of  people,  who  had  hurriedly  risen,  were  pressing 
towards  her. 

15* 


346  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

But  she  only  saw  Emma  Burton,  and  she  cried  out  to  her, 
"  Emma,  dear,  I  am  going  to  be  ill ;  take  care  of  Baby.  Then 
there  came  over  her  in  one  moment  a  terrible  recollection  of  her 
lone,  solitary  journey ;  a  sudden  appreciation  of  the  enormous 
task  she  had  so  heedlessly  undertaken ;  then  one  happy  moment, 
in  which  she  was  conscious  that  she  was  safe  ;  and  then  the  brave, 
silly  little  woman,  overdone  in  body  and  mind,  became  comfortably 
insensible,  and  was  borfie  in  a  kind  of  triumph  to  bed  by  Mrs. 
Burton  and  Emma,  and,  waking  up,  found  that  she  had  caught  a 
violent  rheumatic  cold,  lost  one  of  her  shoes,  and  all  capacity  for 
thinking  consecutively  and  reasonably. 

She  had  trusted  her  old  friend  the  Bush  a  little  too  far  this 
time.  As  she  very  sensibly  said,  she  was  glad  it  did  not  happen 
before. 

Samuel  Burton  went  back  to  his  cottage  very  fast.  When  he 
got  back  he  found  old  Ben  still  smoking  over  the  fire,  who 
seemed  inclined  to  resume  the  conversation  where  it  was  broken 
off;  but  Samuel  told  him  savagely  to  shut  up,  and  sat  over  the 
fire  with  his  head  buried  in  his  hands. 

So  Reuben  was  alone  at  Stanlake.  Now  or  never  was  his 
time.  He  determined  to  go  to  England  to  see  Reuben.  Reu- 
ben's mind  had  been  poisoned  against  him  by  some  one ;  perhaps 
by  old  Morton,  the  keeper.  He  would  find  Reuben,  and  make 
his  story  good  to  him,  and  would  induce  Reuben  to  live  with 
him,  and  would  work  to  make  his  fortune.  He  thought  that  he 
had  possibly  been  unjustly  suspicious  of  Sir  George  Hillyar. 
He  was  determined  that  Sir  George  Hillyar  should  have  fair 
play.     He  would  not  meddle  with  Sir  George  in  any  way. 

Meanwhile,  with  regard  to  Samuel  Burton.  If  the  chiM,  when 
stretching  out  its  hands  towards  the  burning  logs,  had  really  been 
praying  for  mercy  for  his  father,  he  could  hardly  have  done  more 
to  soften  the  heart  of  the  man  who  held  such  terrible  power  over 
both  of  them.  If  he  could  only  get  Reuben,  he  would  not  be- 
have vindictively  towards  him.  Nay,  supposing  Erne  to  be 
really  dead,  what  power  had  he  ?  And  this  is  remarkable.  He 
could  not  decide  whether  Erne  was  dead  or  alive  ;  for  at  one 
time  lie  thought  it  impossible  that  he  could  have  survived,  which 
was  perfectly  reasonable,  and,  at  another,  his  soul  was  filled  with 
a  superstitious,  unreasonable  belief  that  he  was  alive,  and  would 
return.  He  had  divorced  himself  by  instinct  and  practice  from 
truth  so  long  that  he  was  utterly  unable  to  examine  evidence, 
and  decide  on  probabilities.  But  he  found  that,  whenever  he 
believed  Erne  to  be  alive,  his  rancor  against  Sir  George  Hillyar 
increased,  and,  when  he  believed  him  dead,  his  feeling  towards 
his  old  master  grew  more  tender.  As  his  intellect  told  him  that 
his  power  of  treating  with  his  enemy  grew  less,  so  his  heart  grew 


THE  IIILLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS.  347 

more  tender  towards  the  enemy  with  wliom  lie  was  about  to 
treat.  I  supj)ose  we  should  all  feel  somewliat  in  love  with  the 
Russians,  and  feel  a  deep  admiration  for  their  valor,  their,  —  I 
don't  know  what  else  there  is  to  admire  in  tliem,  but  we  could 
find  that  out,  —  in  case  of  our  falling  out  with  the  Americans. 
When  we  found  ourselves  not  in  a  position  to  fight  them  we 
eliould  begin  to  feel  affectionate  towards  tiiem,  and  remember  old 
Crimean  courtesies,  nay,  contrast  them,'  the  Russians,  favorably 
with  our  faithful  allies  the  French.  Now  that  Samuel  Burton 
saw  the  power  over  his  old  master  slipping  through  his  hands,  he 
began  to  care  for  him  once  more. 


CHAPTER    LXV. 

EX-SECRETARY   OXTON   GETS  A  LESSON. 

"  You  must  do  me  the  credit  to  say,  dear  Mr.  Oxton,"  said  the 
widow  North,  one  evening  at  the  Bend,  "  that  I  always  hated 
Mr.  O'Ryan  most  cordially.  But  I  never  believed  him  to  be  a 
fool,  —  yes,  I  will  say  it,  a  fool,  —  till  now." 

"-You  are  quite  sure  he  is  one,  then  ?  "  said  Mr.  Oxton. 

"  Don't  you  think  so  yourself?"  said  the  widow. 

"No,  I  don't,"  said  the  Secretary.  "I  always  thought  him 
wonderfully  clever  and  able,  but  I  never  thought  he  would  have 
made  a  statesman  till  now.  No,  I  won't  abuse  the  word  '  states- 
man.' I  never  suspected  that  he  had  half  as  much  political  sa- 
gacity as  he  is  now  showing." 

"  I  am  at  a  loss  to  understand  you,"  said  the  widow. 

"  And  I  am  not  in  a  position  to  explain  myself,"  said  Mr.  Ox- 
ton, rising  and  laughing. 

"  You  are  very  unkind  and  disagreeable,"  said  the  good-natured 
widow.  "  Aggy,  don't  you  think  tiiat  a  simi)le  mistake  about  the 
direction  of  a  letter,  could  have  been  got  over  without  your  hus- 
band's havino;  an  hour's  tete-a-tete  with  Miss  Burke  ?  " 

"  My  dear  Eleanor,"  said  Mrs.  Oxton,  "  you  are  perfectly  right. 
My  husband's  penchant  for  Miss  Burke  has  caused  me  the  deepest 
grief  and  anxiety  for  many  years.  It  is  a  painful  subject.  Let 
us  change  the  convei-sation." 

"  Well,"  said  Mrs.  North,  laughing,  "  I  won't  try  to  sow  dissen- 
sion between  man  and  wife,  particularly  as  she  is  coming  here  to- 
night.    I  hate  scenes." 

"  She  will  hardly  come  to-night  in  the  thunder-storm,  will  she  ?  " 
said  Joe.     "  How  terrible  the  rain  is  1 " 


348  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  Why,  no ;  she  cannot  move  in  such  ^Yeather  as  this,"  Mrs. 
Oxton  allowed,  and  they  all  agreed. 

But  presently,  just  after  a  blinding  flash  of  lightning,  her  voice 
was  heard  in  the  hall ;  and  they  all  crowded  out  to  meet  her. 

She  had  got  on  a  macintosh,  and  had  tied  a  shawl  over  her 
bonnet  so  as  completely  to  hide  her  face.  She  looked  much  more 
like  a  man  than  a  woman  on  the  whole,  as  she  stood  in  the  hall, 
with  the  wet  pouring  off  her  in  streams ;  they  only  knew  it  was 
her  by  her  voice. 

"  How  could  you  venture  out  in  such  weather,  my  dear  Les- 
bia  ?  "  began  Mrs.  Oxton. 

"  Mr.  Burton,  your  sisther's  come  by  the  stamer ;  but  she 's  not 
gone  home  ;  she 's  up  at  my  house,  and  stays  there  to-night. 
James  Oxton,  I'll  trouble  ye  for  an  audyence  in  a  hurry,  alone 
wid  yourself." 

Mr.  Oxton  took  her  into  another  room,  and  left  the  others  won- 
dering. The  moment  they  were  alone,  and  she  had  moved  the 
shawl  from  her  head,  Mr.  Oxton  saw  she  looked  exceedingly 
grave. 

"  James,  you  may  well  wonder  at  my  coming  out  such  weather. 
I  have  got  news  which  will  make  you  look  as  grave  as  me." 

"  I  know  you  have  been  doing  something  kind  for  me,  old 
friend ;  I  am  sure  of  that." 

"Nothing  more  than  coming  out  in  a  thunder-storm,  and  I'd 
do  more  than  that  for  ye.  It 's  some  one  else  ye  're  obliged  to 
this  time,  my  dear  James.  That  angel,  Emma  Burton,  who  is 
not  only  ready  and  willing  to  devote  her  life  and  her  health  to 
any  one  who  may  need  it,  but  by  some  divine  kind  of  luck  seems 
alwaj^s  in  the  way  to  do  it,  —  it 's  her  you  're  obliged  to  this  time." 

"  God  bless  her  beautiful  face,  and  soften  her  sorrow  !  I  need 
not  pray  that  she  may  have  peace,  for  she  has  that  peace  which 
passes  understanding.     Now,  old  friend  ?  " 

"James,  that  scoundrel,  Sir  George  Hilly ar,  has  been  neglect- 
ing Gerty." 

"  So  I  supposed,  from  having  none  of  my  letters  answered,  and 
from  Gerty  saying  nothing  of  him." 

"  But  it  is  worse  than  that." 

"  Has  he  gone  off  with  another  woman  ?  " 

«  Yes." 

"  I  did  all  I  could  to  prevent  it,"  said  poor  Mr.  Oxton.  "  What 
could  I  do  more  ?  He  was  a  very  good  parti  for  her.  How  can 
any  one  blame  me  in  this  miserable  business  ?  No  !  no !  I  will 
not  say  that.  I  have  been  deeply  to  blame,  and  it  will  break  my 
poor  little  Gerty's  heart." 

Miss  Burke  sat  down  on  the  floor  and  began  to  moan. 

"  Don't  make  me  a  scene,  there 's  a  dear  old  girl ;  I  am  not  up 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  349 

to  it.  After  T  let  this  miserable  marriage  take  place,  I  should 
have  kept  him  here.  lie  might  have  been  saved  ;  who  knows  ? 
Now,  get  up,  Lesbia ;  you  are  getting  too  old  to  go  on  like  this." 

"  Not  till  you  know  who  he  lias  gone  off  with !  —  not  till  you 
know  who  he  has  gone  off  with ! " 

"  Who  is  it,  then  ?  "  said  Mr.  Oxton,  turning  sharply  on  her. 

"  Mary  Nalder  !     Oh,  the  weary  day,  Mary  Nalder  !  " 

*rGet  up  directly.  How  dare  you?  —  In  this  house!  —  How 
dare  you  repeat  such  a  wicked  falsehood,  Lesbia?  How  dare 
you  believe  it?  She,  indeed:  and  that  fellow  !  Get  up,  instant- 
ly, and  give  me  the  name  of  the  scoundrel  who  dared  say  such  a 
thing.  He  shan't  wait  for  Nalder's  tender  mercies.  Get  up, 
and  tell  me  his  name." 

Miss  Burke  got  up  and  went  to  him.  "  I  would  'nt  have  be- 
lieved it,  James,  but  that  the  poor  child  told  me  herself  not  half 
an  hour  ago." 

"  What  poor  child  ?  " 

"  Gerty.  She  has  run  away,  and  come  by  Melbourne,  walking, 
and  made  her  way  to  the  Burtons'  at  Port  Romilly.  And  that 
saint  of  a  girl  has  brought  her  on  here,  tending  her  like  her  own 
sister,  and  keeping  her  quiet." 

"  Gerty  here  ! " 

'"  Shoeless  and  worn  out.  Poor,  simple  child,  she  walked  three 
hundred  miles  through  the  Bush  ;  and,  James " 

"  Let  me  go  to  her.     The  scoundrel !  —  Aggy  !  Aggy !  " 

"  Be  quiet,  James,"  said  Miss  Burke,  rapidly  and  decisively. 

''  Don't  be  a  fool.  The  poor  child  is  out  of  her  mind,  and  don't 
know  any  one  but  Emma  Burton.  And  you  must  keep  Aggy 
from  her,  and  you  must  not  go  near  her  yourself.  For,  James ; 
come  and  hear  a  dear  old  friend  quietly.  The  poor  little  thing's 
last  craze  is  that  you  and  Aggy  are  the  cause  of  the  whole  mis- 
chief. Since  you  have  spoken  about  Mary  Nalder  as  roundly  as 
you  have,  you  have  entirely  restored  my  faith  in  her,  and  I  beg 
her  pardon  for  having  been  so  wicked  as  to  believe  anything 
against  her.  But  our  own  Gerty  says,  in  her  madness,  that  it 
was  you  and  Aorrrv  who  introduced  Sir  Georfje  and  Mrs.  Nalder 
at  your  own  house,  and  that  she  will  never  endure  the  sight  of 
either  of  you  again.  You  must  break  this  to  Aggy,  and  you  must 
leave  her  to  me  and  to  Emma  Burton  for  the  present." 

So  this  was  the  end  of  this  grand  marriage,  in  which  the  Sec- 
retary had  been  led  to  acquiesce  in  an  evil  moment,  disapproving 
of  it  in  his  heart  the  whole  time.  Even  if  he  could  not  have 
stopped  it  in  the  first  instance  (as  he  certainly  could)  he  need  not, 
for  the  mere  sake  of  a  few  odd  thousands  a-year,  have  committed 
the  fatal  fault  of  letting  such  a  wild  hawk  as  George  Hillyar  go 
down  the  wind,  out  of  call,  with  such  a  poor  little  dove  as  Gerty  for 


350  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

his  only  companion.  And  now  here  was  Gerty  come  back,  de- 
serted, heart-broken,  and  mad,  cursing  him  and  his  wife  as  the 
cause  of  all  her  misfortunes.  And,  althouirh  the  dear  little  fool 
was  wrong  as  to  particulars,  was  she  not  right  in  the  main  ?  Mr. 
Oxton  was  more  humbled  and  saddened  than  he  had  been  for 
many  years.  He  had  always  had  a  most  firm  ftxith  in  the  infalli- 
bility of  his  own  sagacity,  and  this  was  the  first  great  shock  it 
had  ever  received ;  and  the  blow  hit  him  the  harder  becau||  it 
came  through  his  heart.  From  this  time  forward  he  was  less  pos- 
itive and  dictatorial,  less  certain  of  his  own  conclusions.  The 
careless  Indian  who  spilt  the  pot  of  wourali  poison  over  Hum- 
boldt's stocking  was  nearly  depriving  us  of  the  "  Kosmos  " ;  and 
so  little  Gerty,  who  was  as  nearly  cracked  as  any  one  of  her 
extremely  limited  intellects  can  manage  to  be  without  the  aid  of 
hereditary  predisposition,  did  by  her  curious  Hegira  manage  to 
affect  the  course  of  atfairs  to  a  considerable  extent ;  and  that,  too, 
without  any  accidental  or  improbable  coincidence  of  time.  She 
not  only  was  the  cause  of  Samuel  Burton's  going  to  England  after 
Reuben,  but  her  arrival,  in  the  sad  plight  which  we  have  describ- 
ed, had  the  effect  on  Mr.  Oxton  mentioned  above,  —  made  him 
more  distrustful  of  foregone  conclusions,  and  more  open  to  nego- 
tiation. 

But  now.  Mr.  Oxton  bent  his  head  down  on  the  table  and 
wept.  After  a  time  he  looked  up  again,  and  said:  "The  last  time 
I  cried,  Lesbia,  was  when  Charley  Morton's  father  got  the  Latin 
verse  prize,  instead  of  me,  at  Harrow."  Miss  Burke  was  stand- 
ing in  her  dripping  mackintosh,  with  her  head  bare,  and  her  long 
black  hair  tangled  down  over  her  shoulders  :  with  her  back  aijainst 
the  door,  spntinel  against  intruders,  —  patient,  gentle,  nay,  al- 
most servile ;  but  with  a  fierce  untamed  power  in  her  splendid 
physique,  in  her  bold  black  eyes,  and  in  her  close  set  mouth ;  a 
true  representative  of  a  great  nation  subdued  for  three  centuries, 
but  never  conquered.  As  Oxton  saw  that  woman  in  her  fantastic 
dress,  with  her  wild  tangled  hair,  standing  against  the  door,  a 
light  seemed  to  break  on  him.  "  She  is  half  a  savage,"  he  said 
to  himself.  "  But  is  there  a  nobler  woman  in  the  colony  ?  I 
have  never  done  these  people  justice.  These  Irish  must  have 
more  in  them  than  I  have  ever  given  them  credit  for.  I  will  try 
to  think  differently  of  them ;  I  am  not  too  old  to  learn." 


THE  IIILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  351 


CHAPTER   LXVI. 

SOMETHING  TO   DO. 

It  was  well  for  poor  Emma  that  she  had  the  care  of  Gerty 
just  now,  for  she  was  pretty  nearly  heart-broken.  Night  and 
day  there  was  but  one  image  before  her  mind's  eye,  —  Erne  ly- 
ing dead  in  the  bush  alone. 

But  the  noble  girl  suffered  in  silence,  and  it  was  only  her  red 
eyes  in  the  morning  which  told  Joseph  that  she  had  been  weep- 
ing all  night  long.  They  did  not  allude  to  the  subject  after  that 
first  dreadful  evening ;  but,  when  three  days  were  gone,  she  said 
she  thought  she  would  like  to  go  to  her  brother  James,  and  that 
the  steamer  sailed  that  day.  Joseph  was  glad  she  should  go,  for 
her  presence  seemed  hke  a  reproach  to  him ;  and  so  she  went  her 
favorite  voyage  to  her  favorite  brother. 

•  They  met  in  silence,  but  his  silent  embrace  told  her  that  he 
loved  her  only  the  more  dearly  in  her  sorrow,  and  she  was  con- 
tented. She  begged  to  sleep  at  James's  house,  because  all  her 
brothers  were  away  at  school,  and  she  thought  she  could  sleep 
better  if  she  had  the  baby.  That  night,  just  before  she  went 
across  to  her  brother's  house,  her  mother  fell  upon  her  bosom  and 
began  weeping  wildly ;  but  Emma  could  not  speak  of  it  yet,  — 
she  only  kissed  her  mother  in  silence. 

In  the  middle  of  the  night  she  came  to  James's  room  in  infinite 
distress.  "  James,  my  dear,"  she  said,  "  I  shall  go  out  of  my 
mind  alone  if  those  native  dogs  keep  howling.  There  is  one  of 
them  again.     How  very,  very  dreadful." 

There  was  something  so  terribly  suggestive  in  her  noticing 
the  noise  of  these  foul  animals  in  this  way,  that  it  frightened 

James,  and  made  him  think  too  of  his  poor  friend,  lying 

where  ?  and  how  ? 

They  found  out  that  she  brooded  on  this  in  silence  all  day 
long;  for  tlie  next  day,  towards  evening,  she  was  sitting  alone 
with  her  mother,  and  suddenly  said,  — 

"  Mother !  I  suppose  that,  even  if  they  were  to  find  his  body 
now,  I  should  not  recognize  it.'* 

"  You  will  know  him  when  you  meet  him  in  glory,  my  darling  ; 
among  all  the  ten  thousand  saints  in  heaven  you  '11  know  him.'* 
This  was  all  that  weeping  Mrs.  Burton  could  find  to  say  from  her 
bursting  heart. 

For  five  days  she  was  like  this,  —  not  idle,  not  morose,  only 


352  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BUETONS. 

very  silent.  No  wild  dogs  were  heard  after  the  first  night :  James 
confided  to  one  or  two  of  the  leading  young  men  that,  under  the 
circumstances,  the  native  dogs  were  an  annoyance  to  his  sister. 
They  took  uncommonly  good  care  that  the  girl  who  had  nursed 
Tim  Reilly's  child  through  the  small-pox  should  not  be  unneces- 
sarily reminded  that  her  sweetheart  was  lying  dead  in  the  bush. 
There  was  no  more  music  from  the  dingoes  after  that. 

So  she  remained  for  that  time,  never  weeping  before  the  others, 
speaking  very  little,  and  only  once  or  twice  about  Erne.  Several 
times  her  brother  James  begged  her  to  talk  to  him  and  ease  her 
heart ;  but  her  answer  was  always  the  same,  —  "  Not  yet,  dear ; 
not  yet."  Once  he  got  her  to  walk  out  with  him  ;  but  one  of  those 
foul,  filthy,  cruel,  beautiful  eagles  came  rushing  through  the  forest 
like  a  whirlwind,  just  over  their  heads,  and  she  shut  her  eyes  and 
stopped  her  ears,  and  begged  James,  for  the  love  of  God,  to  take 
her  home  again. 

But  on  the  fifth  day  God  sent  her  relief,  and  all  was  well.  He 
sent  her  work,  and  her  eye  grew  clear  and  calm  once  more,  and 
the  deadly  lethargy  of  grief  was  gone,  never  to  return.  The 
grief  was  there  still ;  that  never  could  depart  any  more  until 
death  ;  but  God  had  sent  her  the  only  true  remedy  for  it,  —  the 
remedy  which,  acting  on  sainted  souls  like  hers,  destroys  self,  and 
therefore  makes  the  wildest  grief  bearable.  He  sent  her  one 
"  whose  necessity  was  greater  than  her  own,"  —  like  that  of  the 
soldier  at  Zutphen,  —  and  bade  her  forget  herself,  and  see  to  this 
business  for  Him,  and  wait  for  her  reward  hereafter. 

Gerty  came  to  her,  broken  down  in  health,  and  mad,  with  her 
silly,  crazed  little  head  filled  full  of  groundless  suspicions  against 
those  who  loved  her  best.  Here  was  work  for  her  with  a  ven- 
geance. With  a  feeling  of  shame  at  what  she  chose  to  call  her 
own  selfish  grief,  she  rose  and  shook  it  off.  When  Gerty  had 
been  got  to  bed,  she  came  down  to  the  assembled  family,  and  at 
one  glance  they  saw  that  their  old  Emma  was  come  back  to  them. 

"  My  dears,"  she  said,  "  the  steamer  goes  in  four  days.  If  I 
can  get  her  out  of  that  bed  I  shall  take  her  to  Palmerston.  As 
far  as  her  bodily  health  is  concerned,  she  has  only  got  a  bad  rheu- 
matic cold.  But  I  shall  take  her  to  Palmerston,  to  Miss  Burke. 
She  is  not  in  her  riglit  mind  exactly,  and  yet  her  pulse  is  quiet, 
and  her  eyes  are  not  dilated.  She  has  got  a  craze  about  the  Ox- 
tons,  and  —  and  —  She  must  go  to  Miss  Burke.  I  can't  under- 
take to  do  anything  without  Miss  Burke.  I  shall  take  her  to 
Palmerston  on  Thursday." 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  353 


CHAPTER    LXVII. 

THE   BACKSTAIRS  HISTORY  OF  TWO  GREAT  COALITIONS. 

"When  it  was  too  lato,  Joseph  Burton  began  to  realize  to  him- 
self the  fact  that  he,  by  quietly  and  without  remonstrance  allow- 
ing his  sister  to  devote  her  life  to  him,  had  ruined  her  life,  and 
had  committed  a  gross  act  of  selfishness.  The  invalid  of  the 
family,  among  high-bred  and  high-minded  people  like  the  Bur- 
tons, is  generally  nursed  and  petted  into  a  state  of  chronic  selfish- 
ness. Joseph  Burton,  whose  character  we  have  hitherto  taken 
from  his  brother,  had,  in  spite  of  his  really  noble  instincts,  been 
spoilt  in  this  way,  and  hitherto  had  not  thoroughly  recovered  that 
spoiling.  Now  he  plunged  into  politics  more  wildly  than  ever, 
and  made  love  to  Mrs.  North  (who  was  by  no  means  unwilling 
to  have  him  make  love  to  her :  far  from  it)  ;  and  tried  to  forget 
Erne's  death  and  Emma's  misery. 

Mrs.  North's  question  about  the  folly  of  Mr.  O'Ryan  seemed 
pertinent  enough,  but  Mr.  Oxton's  answer  puzzled  her  exceed- 
ingly. Mr.  O'Ryan  had  never  concealed  his  longing  for  otiice 
and  power ;  but,  now  he  had  got  it,  he  seemed  to  be  allowing  his 
party  to  commit  such  extreme  follies,  as  would  put  him  in  the 
Opposition  once  more  within  a  twelvemonth.  And  yet  Mr. 
Oxton  said  that  he  had  never  before  given  him  credit  for  any 
approach  to  political  sagacity.  She  resolved  to  get  her  pretty 
head  as  near  to  Joseph  Burton's  handsome  one  as  was  proper,  in 
a  quiet  window,  on  the  first  opportunity,  and  make  him  explain 
this  mysterious  speech  of  Mr.  Oxton's. 

It  wanted  explanation,  certainly ;  for,  since  the  foundation  of 
Donnybrook  Fair  (by  King  Malachi,  or,  as  Mr.  O'Callagan  called 
him,  Mellekee,  ''  last  of  prophets,  and  first  of  kings  and  saints  in 
the  Island  of  Saints"),  seldom  have  the  public  affairs  of  any 
community  been  brought  into  such  an  extraordinary  hurly-burly 
as  that  into  which  the  O'Ryan  ministry  succeeded  in  bringing 
the  affairs  of  Cooksland.  And  yet  O'Ryan,  who  might  have 
wliipped  his  dogs  in,  and  gained  the  respect  of  the  colony,  only 
lauglied,  and  defended  each  absurdity  by  a  quaint  airy  Palmer- 
stonian  speech,  and  let  things  take  their  course  without  the  slight- 
est concern. 

The  colony  expected  a  land  bill  of  him  (and  to  tell  the  hon- 
est truth,  a  land  bill  was  most  imperatively  necessary),  but  none 
was  offered  to  the  House  by  Mr.  O'Ryan.     He  left  that  to  his 

w 


354         THE  HILL  YAKS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

honorable  and  gallant  friend  and  colleague,  Mr.  Rory  O'More. 
And,  when  the  provisions  of  that  bill  were  laid  before  a  para- 
lyzed and  awe-stricken  House,  even  Mr.  O'Callagan  of  the 
Mohawk  liimself  was  obliged  to  confess  that  it  was  "  a  divvle  of  a 
bill,  indeed,  indeed,  but,  Fang  a  ballagh,  we  'd  get  some  piece  of 
it  any  how." 

The  chief  points  in  the  bill  were,  that  all  the  waste  lands  were 
to  be  laid  open  for  selection  at  5^.  an  acre  ;  that  any  person 
holding  over  eighty  acres  should  pay  a  tax  of  5s.  per  acre  per 
annum ;  and  that  all  the  men  who  at  present  held  more  than 
eighty  acres,  should  pay  a  tax  of  25.  6c?.  an  acre ;  which  last 
provision,  he  remarked,  would  so  far  recruit  the  resources  of  the 
colony  (they  would  have  taken  nearly  £3,000  a  year  from  Mr. 
Oxton  alone)  as  to  enable  them  to  reduce  import  duties,  and  ma- 
terially diminish  their  staff  of  Custom-house  officers. 

The  House  would  n't  have  this  at  all,  —  more  particularly  the 
gentlemen  connected  with  the  Customs  (most  of  them  Irish), 
who  happened  to  sit  in  the  House.  The  bill  was  rejected  by  a 
perfectly  resignable  majority  ;  but  there  was  not  one  single  hint 
of  resignation  from  Mr.  O'Ryan.  And  the  quidnuncs  of  the 
colony  began  to  remark  that  neither  Mr.  Oxton,  nor  Mr.  Daw- 
son, in  the  Upper  House,  nor  Mr.  Dempsey  in  the  Lower,  were 
attending  to  their  parliamentary  duties,  though  all  three  in  town. 

Mr.  Brallagan's  new  Constitution  bill  was  of  a  still  more  as- 
tounding nature  than  Mr.  Rory  O'More's  land  bill.  It  was 
simply  revolutionary.  All  property  qualification  was  done  away 
with  ;  the  Upper  House  abolished ;  and  every  male  in  the  colo- 
ny of  twenty-one,  untainted  with  crime,  invested  with  a  vote. 
Mr.  O'Ryan  spoke  in  favor  of  the  bill  for  about  three  minutes, 
with  an  airy  levity  which  disgusted  every  one.  "  You  must 
come  to  it  some  day  or  another ;  ye  'd  better  swallow  it  now. 
Whether  the  country 's  fit  for  it  or  not,  it  never  will  be  more  fit ; 
besides,  I  have  some  sort  of  curiosity  to  see  the  thing  at  work. 
If  we  do  go  smash  with  it,  the  Home  Government  cart  step  in ; 
and,  if  we  don't,  why  we  can  give  the  old  lady  her  conge,  cut  the 
painter,  and  start  for  ourselves." 

Joseph  Burton  rose  after  Mr.  O'Ryan,  and  in  a  short,  stinging 
speech  denounced  the  insane  folly  of  virtually  putting  the  gov- 
ernment of  the  country  into  the  hands  of  the  most  unfortunate 
and  most  unthrifty  of  the  old  country.  "  With  regard  to  one 
half  of  the  emigrants  now  entering  our  ports,"  continued  Joe,  "  I 
affirm  that  their  mere  presence  in  this  colony  proves  them  to  be 
unable  to  manage  their  own  affairs  with  any  success.  The  re- 
sult of  conferring  full  political  privileges  on  a  thriftless,  selfish, 
and  idle  population  would  be  that  the  most  worthless  class  would 
be  legislated  for,  and  that  the  other  and  more  respectable  classes, 


THE  HILLYAES  AND  THE  BURTONS.  355 

overpowered  by  numbers,  would  be  neglected  ;  that  government 
would  be  forced  by  the  demagogues  to  divert  the  revenue  to  un- 
productive works  to  create  sham  labor,  and  that  there  would 
arise  a  lazzaroni  more  pestilent  than  that  of  Naples." 

Not  a  word  did  Joe  utter  against  Mr.  O'Ryau.  The  bill  was 
lost  by  a  large  majority.  One  of  the  younger  Conservative 
members  rose  and  gave  notice  of  a  motion  of  want  of  confidence. 
The  day  came  and  the  vote  was  put ;  Mr.  O'Ryan  was  victorious 
by  three  votes  ;  and  so  public  business  came  to  a  dead  standstill. 
Only,  the  Governor  having  politely  remarked  that  he  would  be 
glad  of  a  little  money  on  account,  they  made  a  House  and  voted 
him  his  siUary.  As  for  the  rest  of  the  budget,  not  the  slightest 
effort  was  made  to  bring  it  in ;  forcing  a  budget  of  any  kind 
through  a  House,  w^ith  a  majority  of  three,  which  might  yet,  on 
any  day,  in  consequence  of  a  hot  wind,  or  the  mail  steamer  com- 
ing in,  or  a  steeple  chase,  or  a  missionary  meeting,  or  a  prize- 
fight, or  a  thunder-storm,  dwindle  to  a  minority  of  nine,  was  too 
much  trouble.  Meanwhile  affairs  were  come  to  a  dead  lock,  and 
it  was  notorious  that  no  funds  were  in  hand  for  the  payment  of 
officials  for  more  than  two  months. 

When  matters  were  just  at  this  pass,  it  so  happened  that  Mrs. 
North's  pretty  little  carriage  was  conveying  her  quickly  down 
Sturt  Street,  through  the  broiling  summer  noon  ;  when  she  saw, 
walking  rapidly  on  the  pavement  before  her,  a  large  white  um- 
brella, with  somebody's  legs  under  it ;  at  the  sight  of  w  hich  she 
hailed  her  coachman,  and  made  him  jduII  up  beside  the  pave- 
ment. The  radiant  face  of  Joseph  Burton  looked  out  from  under 
the  umbrella,  and  the  widow  perceived  that  "  ex  pede  Hercu- 
lem,"  —  she  had  looked  in  his  face  so  long  and  so  earnestly,  that 
now  she  could  recognize  him  by  the  shape  of  his  legs. 

He  looked  so  unutterably  happy  that  his  joy  communicated 
itself  to  the  kind  little  widow  from  the  mere  force  of  sympathy, 
leaving  alone  and  not  considerinfr  the  fact  that  she  was  over  head 
and  ears  in  love  with  him.  She  was  going  to  speak,  when  he 
anticipated  her. 

"  Dear  Mrs.  North,  will  you  drive  me  somewhere  ?  " 

She  was  going  to  say,  "  I  will  drive  you  anywhere  if  you  will 
look  at  me  like  that !  "  but  she  did  n't.  She  only  said,  "  Jump 
in.     Where  ?  " 

"  The  Bend." 

"  The  Bend,"  cried  out  Mrs.  North  to  the  coachman.  And 
away  went  "  Lothario  "  —  second-best  trotter  in  the  cglony  — 
like  a  steam-engine. 

*'  What  makes  you  look  like  this  ?  "  said  Mrs.  North,  laying 
her  hand  on  his  arm  ;  "  have  you  good  news  ?  " 

"  News  which  has  brought  me  to  life,  and  made  a  man  of  me 


356  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

once  more,"  said  Joe.  "  I  have  carefully  concealed  it  from  you, 
my  dear  friend ;  but  I  have  been  in  deep  distress  lately,  and  the 
cause  of  that  distress  is  suddenly  removed,  and  I  could  sing  for 

joy." 

Now  Mrs.  North  was  one  of  the  most  excellent  and  admirable 
little  women  alive.  But  she  had  got  to  love  Joe,  and  she  knew 
that  Joe  loved  her.  She  also  knew  well  Joe's  ultra-sensitiveness 
about  his  deformity,  and  was  well  aware  that  he,  with  his  in- 
tense pride,  would  never  lay  himself  open  to  the  chance  of  a 
refusal,  would  never  speak  until  he  knew  he  was  safe ;  therefore 
she  saw  that  she  would  have  to  do  a  great  deal  of  a  certain  sort 
of  work  herself  which  is  generally,  by  old  custom  and  tradition, 
done  by  the  gentleman,  and  yet  do  it  in  a  way  which  should  not 
in  the  slightest  degree  clash  with  Joe's  exceedingly  unpractical 
and  book-gathered  notions  of  womanly  modesty. 

And,  if  any  one  was  to  ask  my  opinion,  I  don't  think  the  little 
woman  was  in  the  least  to  blame.  One  would  not  care  to  see  it 
done  by  a  girl  of  twenty :  but  a  widow  of  twenty-six  is  quite  a 
different  matter.     I  think  she  acted  wisely  and  well  all  through. 

She  withdrew  her  hand  from  Joe's  arm.  "  Were  you  blind 
enough,  and  foolish  enough,  to  think  that  you  could  conceal  it 
from  me  ?  "     That  was  all  she  said. 

Joe  began,  "  My  dear  Mrs.  North "  but  she  interrupted 

him. 

"  Come,"  she  said,  "  we  will  talk  of  something  else.  Like 
most  other  men,  you  can  be  good-natured,  even  while  you  are 
bitterly  unkind.  After  such  a  strong  instance  of  the  latter,  just 
merely  for  a  change,  give  me  a  specimen  of  the  former,  and 
explain  this  political  complication  which  puzzles  us  all  so." 

"  Dear  Mrs.  North,"  said  Joe,  in  distress,  "  don't  embitter  the 
happiest  day  in  my  life  by  being  unkind  to  me."  —  The  widow's 
hand  immediately  went  back  on  to  his  wrist,  and  she  said  eag- 
ei-ly,  "  My  dear  Mr.  Burton " 

"  There,  I  knew  you  were  not  seriously  angry,"  said  Joe,  with 
a  brightened  face.  "  Come,  I  will  soon  explain  the  state  of 
affairs,  which  is  so  puzzling  to  the  outsiders." 

"  But  are  you  sure,  dear  Mr.  Burton,"  said  thi^  conscientious 
and  high-souled  widow,  "  that  you  are  violating  no  confidence  ? 
Oh !  if  you  were  to  render  yourself  for  one  moment  uneasy  by 
having  reposed,  in  a  moment  of  excitement,  confidence  in  me, 
the  recollection  of  which  would  hereafter  render  you  unhappy, 
I  should  never,  never " 

"  I  shall  keep  no  secrets  from  you  in  future,"  said  Joe,  solemnly. 
Which  the  widow  thought  was  getting  on  pretty  well,  considering. 

The  dead-lock  in  public  affairs,  as  described  by  Joe,  in  a  de- 
licious drive  through  shade  and  sunlight,  towards  the  Bend,  was 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  357 

simply  this.     (It  is  not  hard  to  understand,  and  will  not  take 
lon<r)  :  — 

O'Ryan  had  been  a  thoroiigli-going  ultra-Republican,  a  man 
^vho  believed  that  the  summit  of  human  hapi)incss,  and  of  politi- 
cal sagacity,  would  consist  in  j>utting  supreme  power  into  the 
hands  of  the  majority,  and  letting  them  settle  their  own  desti- 
nies, without  taking  into  account  whether  or  no  a  po[)ulation  so 
peculiarly  formed  as  that  of  Cooksland,  were  in  the  least  capable 
of  knowing  what  was  best  for  them,  or  of  electing  the  men  who 
could. 

His  innumerable  good  qualities,  his  undoubted  talents,  his 
great  powers  of  debate  gave  him,  most  justly,  the  entire  con- 
fidence of  his  party.  He  could,  most  probably,  when  he  first 
found  himself  in  power,  through  the  fatal  folly  of  James  Oxton, 
have  got  through  a  new  Constitution  bill,  —  so  liberal,  that  all 
backward  steps  would  have  been  impossible,  as  it  would  seem 
they  have  become  in  Victoria ;  and  the  carrying  out  of  his  ex- 
treme theories  would  have  followed  shortly  as  a  matter  of 
course.  But,  before  this  happened,  two  persons  had  been  acting 
on  his  somewhat  facile  and  j^lastic  nature,  and  had  modified  his 
opinions  considerably. 

The  first  of  these  was  Dempsey,  the  Irish  rebel,  the  greatest 
anomaly  from  the  island  of  bulls,  —  a  man  so  good,  so  pure  in 
life,  so  unselfish,  and  so  high-minded,  that  there  were  times  when 
one  was  ashamed  that  he  should  bow  to  one ;  a  man  who  had 
shown  such  great  political  ability,  when  he  was  once  removed 
from  his  craze  of  independent  Irish  nationality;  and  yet  a  man 
who,  in  his  frantic  effort  in  1848,  had  shown  that  he  was  less 
able  to  calculate  on  the  earnestness  of  the  peasants,  and  the 
power  of  the  Government,  than  Smith  O'Brien  or  Duffy ;  —  a 
man  who  ought  to  have  been  respected  and  loved  by  every  one 
for  his  good  qualities,  or  shot  like  a  mad  dog.  You  never  knew 
whether  the  former  or  the  latter  fate  was  the  right  one  for  him. 

This  man  had  a  restless  craving  after  power ;  but  since  '48  he 
had  learnt  what  real  power  was,  and  saw  that  it  was  impossible 
to  enjoy  it  with  such  gentlemen  as  Mr.  O'More,  and  Mr.  Bralla- 
gan,  or  with  such  an  organ  as  the  Mohawk,  and  longed  to  find 
himself  back  again  among  his  peers,  to  have  his  share  of  power 
with  the  Oxtons  and  the  O'Reillys,  —  to  regain  the  ground  he 
had  lost,  by  what  he  now  thought  a  wicked  and  inconsiderate 
rebellion  against  a  government  which,  however  misguided,  was 
generous  and  kind.  Moreover,  though  he  had  been  a  rebel,  he 
had  never  been  a  Republican.  This  man,  both  because  he  was 
a  relation,  and  because  his  eminence  was  undoubted,  had  a  great 
deal  of  inlluence  over  O'Ryan,  and  used  it  in  favor  of  moderation. 

Another  person  who  had  great  power  over  him  was  an  old 


358  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

friend,  Miss  Burke,  the  peacemaker.  She  had  the  profoundest 
contempt  for  men  of  the  Bralhigan  school,  —  men  with  no  quali- 
ties worth  naming  except  fierce  and  noisy  impudence,  and  a 
profound  belief  in  their  own  powers.  She  took  care  that  this 
contempt  should  never  die  out  of  her  cousin's  bosom,  and  certainly- 
few  people  possessed  greater  powers  of  sarcasm  than  she.  No 
one  was  ever  more  able  to  make  any  one  else  contemptible  and 
ridiculous. 

Acted  on  by  these  people,  O'Ryan  grew  more  and  more  tired 
of  his  "  tail,"  and  more  and  more  anxious  to  ally  his  own  talents 
and  those  of  the  pick  of  his  party  to  the  other  talents  of  the 
colony,  and  form  a  sound,  respectable,  moderately  liberal  gov- 
ernment. But  what  was  to  be  done  with  the  "  tail  ?  "  To  an- 
nounce without  preparation  a  coalition  from  which  they  were 
excluded,  would  be  to  whistle  "  Vinegar  Hill "  at  a  Tipperary 
fair. 

"  Hang  it,"  he  said,  laughing,  one  day  to  Dempsey,  "  I  have 
committed  myself  to  these  men,  and  I  can't  back  out.  I  will 
give  them  an  innings.  Let  them  exhibit  their  statesmanship 
before  the  country ;  they  will  be  easier  to  deal  with  afterwards." 

He  did  so.  With  what  result  we  know.  Negotiations  had 
been  set  on  foot  for  a  coalition ;  and  the  negotiators  had  been 
Miss  Burke  and  Joseph  Burton. 

Everything  had  gone  smoothly  until  Mr.  Dempsey  was  brought 
on  the  carpet.  James  Oxton  had  gracefully  met  O'Ryan  half 
way,  and  O'Ryan  had  yielded  with  great  good  sense.  But,  when 
Mr.  Dempsey's  name  was  mentioned,  Mr.  Oxton  peremptorily 
told  Joseph  Burton  that  he  would  sit  in  no  cabinet  with  a  gentle- 
man who  had  been  in  arms  against  her  Majesty's  authority ; 
and  O'Ryan  with  equal  firmness  instructed  Miss  Burke  to  say 
that  he  must  decline  forming  part  of  any  Ministry  which  did 
not  include  his  friend  Dempsey. 

"  This  was  the  knot  all  yesterday,  dear  friend,"  said  Joseph  ; 
"  but  it  is  so  nobly  untied.  Dempsey  has  dejiuted  me  to  say  to 
Mr.  Oxton  that  the  matter  in  hand  is  far  nearer  to  his  heart 
than  any  personal  ambition  could  be,  —  that  he  foregoes  all  his 
claims,  and  will  earnestly  support  the  new  Ministry  from  the 
back  benches." 

"Noble  fellow!"  cried  Mrs.  North.  "And  is  it  this  which 
has  made  you  so  happy  ! " 

"  Oh,  no  ;  something  far  different." 

"  Here  we  are,"  said  eager  Mrs.  North,  as  the  carriage  dashed 
quickly  into  the  gravelled  court-yard,  setting  the  cockatoos  scream- 
ing, and  bringing  all  the  dogs  out  at  them  by  twenty  vomitories. 
"  I  will  wait  and  take  you  back  with  your  answer.    Make  haste." 

Joe  was  not  long  gone.     "  Drive  straight  to  Mr.  Dempsey's 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  S'.O 

at  the  Stockade,"  he  cried.     "My  dear  creature!  at  length  it 
is  all  over  and  done." 

"  What  did  Mr.  Oxton  say  ?  " 

"  He  said,  '  Go,  if  you  please,  and  tell  Mr.  Dempsey  that  I 
am  not  to  be  outdone  in  nobleness  by  him  or  any  other  man. 
Say  that  I  request  him  to  sit  in  the  cabinet  with  us,  as  a  per- 
sonal favor,  and  hope  to  sit  there  many  years  with  one  who  has 
learnt  so  well,  in  whatever  school,  to  sacrifice  his  own  ambition 
for  the  public  good.' " 

'•  You  and  Lesbia  deserve  the  thanks  of  every  man  and  woman 
in  the  colony.  I  am  proud  of  your  acquaintance.  You  are  to 
have  a  seat  in  the  cabinet,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Yes,  I  am  to  be  Minister  of  Education." 

She  was  looking  at  him  when  he  said  the  last  three  words,  and 
saw  that,  for  the  first  time,  he  fully  appreciated  the  grandeur 
of  the  position  to  which  he  had  found  himself  elevated.  As  he 
said  the  words  "  Minister  of  Education,"  his  face  flushed  and  the 
pupils  of  his  eyes  expanded.  "  That  is  well,"  thouglit  Mrs.  North. 
''  I  wonder  if  he  means  to  speak." 

Apparently  he  meant  to  hold  his  tongue,  for  he  did  it.  There 
was  a  long  silence,  during  which  Joe  twice  turned  towards  her, 
and  twice  turned  aw^ay.  "I  suppose  I  must  do  it  myself,  then, 
after  all,"  thought  Mrs.  North. 

"  Ah,  me  !  "  she  said  in  a  sweet  low  voice  ;  "  I  suppose  I  shall 
see  but  little  of  the  Minister  of  Education :  you  will  have  but 
little  spare  time  for  my  tittle-tattle  now.  However,  the  past  is  our 
own.  You  can  never  deprive  me  of  the  recollection  of  the  pleas- 
ant talks  we  have  had  together ;  and  at  all  events  I  can  watch 
your  career  from  a  distance.  I  shall  have  that  pleasure,  at  all 
events." 

"Mrs.  North,"  began  Joe.    "If  I  was  not  a  cripple " 

here  he  stopped  again. 

Dead  silence  on  the  part  of  Mrs.  North. 

"  If  I  was  not  a  cripple,  I  should  ask  you  if  I  might  dare " 

Mrs.  North's  little  hand  was  gently  laid  on  Joe's. 

"  Mary,  I  love  you." 

"  And  I  love  you,  Joseph.  And  I  will  prove  it  to  you  between 
this  and  the  grave,  if  God  spares  me." 

"  Propose  to  him  myself,  dear  ?  "  said  Mrs.  North  to  Mrs.  Ox- 
ton  next  day.     "  No,  my  dear,  I  assure  you  on  my  word  of  honor 
that  I  was  not  driven  so  far  as  that.     But  I  should  have  done  so^^-  ~ 
in  ten  minutes  more,  dear;  and  so  I  don't  deceive  xj^v^^iL^.^^'  """'^  _   -? 


oGO  THE  HILLYAKS  AND   THE   BURTONS. 


CHAPTER    LXVIII. 

SAMUEL   BURTON  MAKES  HIS  LAST   VISIT  TO   STANLAKE. 

"  A  CURSED  climate,"  said  Samuel  Burton,  between  his  set 
teeth ;  "  a  God-forgotten  climate.  If  I  can  get  my  boy  away  out 
of  this,  /7/  never  set  foot  in  it  again.  He  may  come  home  here 
and  live  like  ^  gentleman,  when  I  have  made  his  fortune,  and 
am " 

He  could  not  say  the  word  "  dead."  He  could  not  face  it.  He 
cursed  himself  for  having  approached  so  near  the  subject.  If 
any  one  had  been  watching  his  face,  he  would  have  seen  a  look 
of  wild  ghastly  terror  in  it. 

The  time  and  place,  when  and  where,  we  pick  him  up  again, 
were  not  by  any  means  cheerful  or  inspiriting.  He  was  toiling, 
in  pitch  darkness,  through  wild  November  sleet,  over  one  of  the 
high  downs  near  Croydon,  towards  Stanlake. 

"  I  would  n't  care  for  anything,"  he  went  on  musing,  "  if  it 
was  n't  for  that.  If  I  was  n't  afraid  of  dying,  I  could  be  happy. 
And  it  ain't  what  is  to  come  after  that  frightens  me,  neither  ; 
there  is  uncertainty  enough  about  that.  But  it  is  the  act  of 
dying  which  frightens  me  so.  It  must  be  so  very,  very  horrid. 
Bah  !  I  have  lived  a  coward,  and,  oh  Lord,  I  must  die  a  coward. 
Why,  the  distinct  dread  of  the  terror  I  shall  feel  in  dying  nearly 
maddens  me.  What  will  the  terror  itself  be  like,  when  I  feel  it 
coming  on  ?  " 

Although  the  bitter  sleet  was  driving  in  his  face,  and  racking 
his  sun-warmed  muscles  with  twinges  of  rheumatism,  yet  he 
found  that  he  was  in  a  sweat,  —  in  the  sweat  of  hopeless  terror. 

"  And  yet  the  main  of  men  ain't  afraid  of  it.  There  was  that 
young  keeper  at  Stanlake  in  old  times,  —  what  was  his  name 
again?  —  ah!  Bill  Harker,  that  was  the  man,  —  that  was  shot. 
He  died  hard  enough,  but  he  was  n't  afraid  of  it ;  and  I  was  n't 
afraid  of  seeing  a  fellow  die  neither  in  those  times,  as  I  am  now. 
He  was  n't  afi-aid  of  it  for  himself ;  he  kept  on,  when  the  very 
death-agony  was  on  him,  '  Oh,  my  poor  wife !  Oh,  wliat  will  be- 
come of  my  poor  little  wife!'  What  the  devil  made  him  think 
of  her,  I  wonder,  at  such  a  time  as  that,  with  an  ounce  of  small 
shot  in  his  stomach  ?  " 

That  was  very  puzzling  indeed  ;  but  he  did  not  let  it  puzzle 
him  long.  He  came  back  to  the  great  point  at  issue :  How  this 
terror  of  the  act  of  dying, — which  was  undoubtedly  a  nuisance 


THE   UILLYARS  AND   THE   BURTONS.  3G1 

so  j^reat  that  at  times  it  made  life  not  worth  havin<,s  —  was  to  be 
ai):ited  or  abohshed.  Nuisances  not  half  so  great  liad  been  often 
denounced  by  the  pubHc  press  as  being  inconsistent  with  pro- 
gress. And  yet  here  was  a  great  standing  [)ubhc  luiisance,  with 
no  remedy  suggested,  lie  was  obliged  to  bring  his  train  of 
thought  to  a  standstill,  and  curse  the  climate  ^' pour  s'aniuser." 

"  i  w  ish  1  knew  where  my  boy  was  living,"  he  began  thinking 
a"-ain.  "  1  shall  have  to  make  to  Morton's  lodge ;  and  there  are 
certain  risks  about  that.  He  might  give  me  u})  ;  and,  before  Sir 
George  could  be  communicated  with,  I  should  be  tight  in  for  ten 
years  over  the  Lawrence  Street  business.  It 's  a  terrible  risk  my 
being  here.  Why,  Sir  George  could  n't  save  me,  if  I  was  seen 
by  tiie  traps.  How^ever,  I  'II  have  my  boy  out  of  this  if  I  die 
for  it." 

As  he  walked  he  got  drenched  to  tlie  skin  in  the  icy  shower ; 
and  his  courage  cooled.  "  I  hardly  dare  go  near  him ;  I  think  I 
must  be  mad  ;  but  he  is  never  the  man  to  give  up  an  old  fellow- 
servant  wdio  knows  so  much.     No." 

Scrambling  down  the  steep  chalk  wall  of  Whitley  Hill,  he 
came  to  the  long  grass  ride  through  Whitley  Copse  which  led  to 
Morton's  lodge.  The  moon,  fighting  with  the  northeasterly 
Bcud,  shone  out  sometimes  and  showed  him  his  way ;  so,  during 
a  longer  gleam  than  any  which  had  gone  before,  he  found  liim- 
self  clo.-e  to  the  lodge,  which  was  })erfectly  dark  and  silent  in 
the  moonlight ;  though  he  could  see  that  another  great  bank  of 
rack  was  driving  up,  and  that  night  would  soon  be  black  once 
more. 

He  hesitated,  and  then  whistled.  As  he  had  expected,  Rory 
and  Tory,  (Irish,)  Lad  and  Ouy,  (Ladoga  and  Onega,  Russian,) 
Don  and  Sancho,  (Spanish,)  Lady  and  Lovely,  (Clumber,)  not  to 
mention  Vic,  Jip,  Jack,  Nip,  Yen,  Dick,  and  Snap,  (English  ter- 
riers,) took  up  the  question  all  at  once :  declared  that  they  had 
never  closed  an  eye  ;  that  they  had  heard  him  a  mile  otf,  but  had 
deep  political  reasons  for  not  barking  before ;  and  generally  be- 
haved with  that  mixture  of  humbug  and  overstrained  conscien- 
tiousness which  dogs  assume  when  they  are  taken  by  sur[)rise. 

Samuel  had  lived  so  long  in  a  country  where  hydrophobia  is 
unktiown  that  he  had  almost  forgotten  the  existence  of  that  hor- 
rible disease,  and  would  far  sooner  have  faccHl  a  dangerous  dog 
than  an  innocent  slow-worm.  He  merely  scolded  them  away, 
right  and  left,  and,  going  up  to  the  door,  knocked  loudly. 

A  voice,  evidently  from  bed,  said,  ''  Father,  is  that  you  ?  " 

He  said,  "  Yes,  Reuben.     Get  up,  and  let  me  in." 

The  owner  of  the  voice  was  heard  instantly  to  get  out  of  bed. 
In  a  few  moments  a  young  man  had  opened  the  door,  and  was 
btanding  before  Samuel  in  his  shirt  and  breeches,  looking  at  him 
IG 


S62  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

with  eager  curiosity.  But  it  was  not  Reuben ;  it  was  a  taller 
young  man  than  he,  with  a  very  square  face,  and  keen  blue  eyes. 
Though  he  had  nothing  on  but  his  breeches  and  shirt,  he  stood 
there  with  his  bare  letjs  in  the  cold  nii>ht  air  for  more  than  half  a 
minute,  staring  at  Samuel. 

Samuel  saw  the  father's  face  at  once.  "  You  are  young  Mor- 
ton," he  said. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  young  man  ;  "  and,  from  what  you  said  just 
now,  you  must  be  Reuben's  father,  Sam  Burton.  I  have  heard 
a  deal  of  you,  but  I  never  thought  to  have  seen  you.     Come  in." 

Young  Morton  dressed  himself,  and  took  another  long  look  at 
Samuel.     "  So  you  are  come  after  Reuben  ?  " 

"  No,"  said  Samuel,  lying,  because  it  was  easiest.  "  I  have 
come  after  your  father ;  but  where  is  Reuben  ?  " 

"  He  is  with  father." 

"  Can  you  tell  me  where  your  father  is  ?  I  want  to  see  him 
on  a  matter  of  life  and  death." 

The  young  man  turned  his  face  to  the  fire,  and  remained  silent 
a  long  time.     At  last  he  said,  — 

"  I  hope  I  am  not  doing  wrong  in  telling  you,  Mr.  Burton.  I 
was  told  to  tell  no  one.  We  are  in  terrible  trouble  and  confusion 
here,  and  I  hope  I  shall  not  increase  it.  But  I  will  sleep  over 
it.  You  must  stay  here  to-night,  and  to-morrow  morning,  unless 
I  alter  my  mind,  I  will  tell  you." 

Young  Morton  did  not  alter  his  mind  in  the  morning ;  just  be- 
fore they  parted  he  said,  — 

"  You  know  the  Black  Lion,  Church  Street,  Chelsea  ?  " 

Samuel  rather  thought  he  did.  He,  however,  expressed  to 
young  Morton  that  he  had  some  vague  recollection  of  a  licensed 
victualler's  establishment,  not  a  hundred  miles  from  that  spot, 
with  a  somewhat  similar  sign. 

Young  Morton  laughed.  "  Well,  my  father  and  Reuben  are 
to  be  heard  of  there,"  he  said. 

"  But,  my  dear  young  man,"  said  Samuel,  "  I  put  it  to  you 
whether  I  dare  go  near  the  place.     Come." 

"  I  don't  know  anything  about  that,  Mr.  Burton.  There  they 
are ;  and,  if  you  want  to  see  them,  there  you  must  go.  Good 
morniner." 


THE  HILLYAKS   AND   THE   BURTONS.  3G3 


CHAPTER    LXIX. 

SIR   GEORGE    AND    SAMUEL    CLOSE   TIIETR   ACCOUNTS,   AND   DLS- 
SOLVE   PARTNERSHIP. 

Sneaking  from  pillar  to  post,  sauntering  into  doorways  and 
^vaiting  till  suspicious  persons  had  passed,  sometimes  again  walk- 
ing briskly,  as  though  with  a  purpose  before  him,  and  sometimes 
turning  his  back  on  the  place  for  which  he  was  bound,  Samuel 
Burton  at  length  reached  the  narrow  passage  which  leads  into 
Garden  Grove,  and  set  himself  to  watch  the  Black  Lion. 

It  was  eight  o'clock,  and  a  bitterly  bleak  night.  The  keen 
east  wind,  after  roaming  through  the  dust  heaps  in  Garden  Grove, 
concentrated  itself,  and  rushed  through  this  passage,  as  through 
a  large  organ  pipe,  of  which  Samuel  formed  the  reed.  His  whole 
body  began  to  gi^•e  forth  a  dull,  monotonous  wail  from  every  pro- 
jection, which  increased  in  violence  with  the  strength  of  the  ago- 
nizino;  wind,  but  never  altered  one  single  note.  When  he  did 
get  to  bed  after  this  eventful  night  he  instantly  dreamt  that  he 
was  an  ^olian  harp,  and  that  Sir  George  Hillyar  the  elder  came 
and  tuned  him. 

The  dry,  searching  wind,  intensely  cold,  pinched  up  his  already 
pinched-up  face,  until  it  looked  more  like  that  of  a  weasel  than 
of  a  man  ;  and  his  long,  thin  nose,  red  and  blue,  peered  queru- 
lously out  into  the  darkness,  as  though  he  were  looking  with  that, 
and  not  with  the  beady  eyes  above  it,  deep  sunk  under  his  heavy 
eyebrows.  There  came  two  impudent  and  low-lived  boys  into 
the  passage,  the  one  of  whom  formally  introduced  him  to  the 
other.  "This,  Ben,"  said  the  young  ruffian,  "is  my  uncle,  the 
undertaker's  man.  He  's  awaiting  for  a  ride  home  in  the  hearse, 
and  is  going  inside,  as  his  lungs  is  delicate." 

He  really  did  look  like  something  of"  that  kind  ;  for,  when  he 
liad  taken  to  pietism,  to  see  what  that  would  do  for  him,  he  had, 
as  being  the  first  and  easiest  step  in  that  direction,  taken  to  dress 
him-elf  in  black  clothes  with  a  white  necktie;  and,  although  he 
liad  given  up  religion  as  a  bad  job,  finding  that  even  the  lowest 
and  mo.>t  superstitious  form  of  it  demanded  inexorably  a  moral 
practice  which  to  him  seemed  a  ghastly  imj)os-ibility,  yet  he  stuck, 
at  all  events,  to  what  he  considered  one  of  the  outward  symbols 
of  godliness,  and  always  appeared  in  public  in  so  scrupulously 
correct  a  costume  that  it  would  have  stricken  one  of  our  ad- 
vanced young  parsons  dumb  with  a  mingled  feeling  of  wonder 
and  contempt. 


364  THE  HILLYARS  AND   THE   BURTONS. 

So  he  stood  for  a  long  time,  shivering  with  cold,  and  thinking 
whether  he  dared  show  himself  in  the  bar  of  the  Black  Lion,  and 
concluding  most  unhesitatingly  that  he  dared  not.  But,  if  Reuben 
and  Morton  were  to  be  heard  of  there,  tliere  was  every  chance  of 
his  seeing  one  or  another  of  them  coming  in  or  out ;  so  he  waited. 
I  suspect  it  is  easier  for  an  old  convict  to  wait  than  for  you  or  me. 
When  one  has  got  accustomed  to  wait  in  the  blank  horrid  dark- 
ness of  a  j)rison  cell  for  the  warder  to  bring  one  one's  food,  wait- 
ing becomes  easy,  although  patience  may  be  a  virtue  which  has 
taken  wings  long  ago. 

So  he  waited  impatiently,  cursing  time,  for  one  knows  not  how 
long.  But  after  a  while  he  cursed  no  more,  and  was  impatient 
no  more.  Every  other  feeling  was  absorbed  in  one,  —  intense 
eager  curiosity. 

The  shrill  driving  easterly  wind  had  brought  the  London  smoke 
w^ith  it,  mixed  with  fog ;  it  had  been  barely  possible  to  see  across 
the  street.  Samuel  had  tried,  three  or  four  times,  to  make  out 
the  vast  looming  mass  of  Church  Place,  —  the  old  home  of  the 
Burtons,  —  in  the  darkness,  and  had  not  succeeded.  But  by  one 
of  those  laws  which  guide  the  great  river  fogs,  some  side  pufF  of 
wind,  some  sudden  change  in  the  weight  of  the  atmosphere,  the 
river  fog  was  lifted,  and  the  whole  of  the  great  house  stood  out 
before  him.  It  was  all  dark  below,  but  aloft  the  great  dormer 
window,  —  the  window  of  Reuben's  old  room,  —  was  blazing  with 
light. 

He  watched  now  with  bated  breath.  He  could  see  the  old 
palings  which  surrounded  the  house,  and  saw  that  the  gate  in 
them  was  open.  He  had  not  long  found  out  this  when  he  saw 
Reuben  and  Morton  together  come  out  from  that  gate,  cross  the 
street,  and  go  into  the  "  Black  Lion." 

Like  a  cat,  like  a  weasel,  like  a  slinking  leopard,  —  like  a  young 
member,  with  no  faith  save  the  rules  of  debate,  whatever  they 
may  be,  who  sits  with  hungry  eyes  to  catch  a  poor  old  man,  old 
enough  to  be  his  grandfather,  tripping,  —  Samuel  Burton  slid 
across  the  street,  and  passed  unobserved  and  wondering  into  the 
old  house. 

His  first  idea  had  been  to  wait  about  in  the  vast  rooms,  which 
he  saw  were  lightless  and  deserted,  until  he  found  out  how  the 
land  lay  ;  and  with  this  view  he  slipped  into  the  great  room  on 
the  first  floor,  and  waited  there  in  the  dark.  But  not  for  long. 
There  were  too  many  ghosts  there ;  and  ghosts,  as  every  one 
knows,  have  no  manners,  —  they  have  never  yet  been  made  to 
take  any  hint,  however  strongly  given,  that  their  company  is  un- 
acceptable :  they  will  not  behave  even  like  the  most  tiresome  of 
morning  visitors,  and  go  when  the  lady  of  tlie  house  sees  some- 
thing remarkable  out  of  window.     The  behavior  of  the  ghosts  in 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  365 

this  empty  old  room  was  exceedingly  rude  toward  the  miserable, 
godless,  superstitious  old  convict.  One  gentleman,  indeed,  an  ex- 
warder,  whose  brains  Samuel  had  seen  knocked  out  with  a  shovel, 
in  a  stringy-bark  forest,  some  fifteen  years  before,  wa<  so  offen- 
sively assiduous  in  his  attentions  that  he  found  it  necessary  to  go 
out  on  to  the  stairs,  and,  when  there,  to  go  up  them  towards  what 
might  be  capture  and  ruin,  sooner  than  Jiave  any  further  tete-a- 
tete  with  the  Sintram  companions,  whose  acquaintance  he  had 
made  in  a  life  of  selfish  rascality. 

But  he  really  was  not  much  alarmed;  he  saw  there  was  some 
hole-and-corner  work  going  on,  and  that  gave  him  confidence. 
People  who  took  possession  of  the  garrets  of  deserted  houses 
must  be  doing  something  secret,  something  in  his  way.  The 
risk  was  certainly  great,  but  he  determined  to  face  it.  Sneak- 
ing curiosity  had  become  a  second  nature  to  him ;  and,  besides,  it 
was  not  a  much  greater  danger  than  he  had  run  in  approaching 
the  place  at  all. 

So  he  gained  the  door  of  Reuben's  room,  and  looked  in,  and 
then  drew  back  amazed.  It  was  comfortably  furnished,  and  full 
of  light,  not  only  from  a  blazing  fire,  but  from  two  or  three  can- 
dles dispersed  about  it.  Everything  was  still,  except  a  heavy 
breathing  of  some  sleepers ;  and  after  a  momentary  hesitation  he 
looked  in  again. 

On  a  sofa  opposite  to  him  was  stretched  a  large  man,  sleeping 
heavily.  In  a  bed  close  to  the  fire  lay  another  man,  with  his  face 
turned  from  him ;  and  both  were  apparently  asleep.  The  man 
on  the  sofa  had  his  face  turned  towards  him,  and  he  could  see 
every  feature  plainly.  And,  after  the  first  glance  at  that  face, 
curiosity  mastered  every  other  feeling,  and  he  went  softly  in  and 
gazed  on  him. 

A  big,  red-faced,  handsome  giant,  whose  chest  went  gently  up 
and  down  in  the  deep  breathing  of  sleep,  and  whose  innocent, 
silly  mouth  was  wreathed  into  a  smile  at  some  foolish  dream  ! 
Samuel  thrust  his  long  thin  nose  close  to  him,  and  his  little  eyes 
dilated  with  a  maddened  curiosity.  He  knew  him,  and  he  did  n't 
know  him.  Who  on  earth  was  it  ?  As  he  stood  there  watching, 
risk,  time,  place,  everything  was  forgotten.  Where  had  he  seen 
this  man  before  ?  He  sent  his  memory  ranging  back  to  the  very 
beginning  of  his  life,  and  could  not  remember.  Had  he  gone 
mad?  —  or  had  he  slept  for  twenty  years,  and  had  Erne  Hillyar 
grown  into  tliis  ? 

And  who  could  that  be  in  bed  ?  A  sick  man,  for  the  evidences 
of  sickness  were  there  in  plenty.  Curiosity  and  awe  had  over- 
mastered fear  now ;  he  stole  to  the  bed,  sat  down  in  a  chair  be- 
side it,  and  watched,  wondering,  till  the  sick  man  should  turn  his 
face  towards  Kim,  feeling  that  when  he  did  so  this  wonderful  rid- 
dle would  be  read. 


SG6  THE   HILLYARS  AND   THE  BURTONS. 

He  did  not  wait  many  minutes.  Sir  George  Hillyar  turned 
uneasily  towards  liim,  and  recognized  him,  and  Samuel  saw  the 
word  "  death  "  written  on  his  face. 

We  are  strange,  contradictory  creatures  !  —  the  highest  and  the 
lowest  of  us  :  David,  —  David,  King  of  Israel,  I  mean,  not  the 
painter,  —  and  Marat.  Call  it  a  truism;  it  is  none  the  less  true. 
AVhen  this  wretched  scoundrel  saw  his  old  master  dying  here  mis- 
erably, before  his  years  were  ripe,  a  purer  and  nobler  sentiment 
warmed  his  rotten  old  heart,  and  showed  itself  in  those  darkened 
little  windows  of  his  eyes,  than  had  place  in  him  since  he  had 
knelt  at  his  mother's  kuee.  Deep,  deep  pity.  It  bore  no  lasting 
fruit ;  the  man  died  as  he  had  lived,  —  for  amendment  seems  to 
become  an  impossibility  after  a  certain  point,  at  least  in  this 
world.  But,  though  the  spring  got  choked  up  once  more,  still 
it  had  welled  up,  and  shown  that  there  was  water  beneath  the  soil. 

The  history  of  the  soul  of  a  thorough-going  rascal  like  Samuel 
Burton  "  remains  to  be  written."  We  can't  do  it ;  w.e  can  only 
describe  the  outside  of  such,  and  say  what  we  saw  them  do  under 
such  and  such  circumstances,  as  we  have  done  with  Samuel  Bur- 
ton. As  for  what  they  think,  feel,  and  believe,  they  lie  so  hor- 
ribly and  habitually  that  the  chances  are  ten  to  one  that  every 
other  word  they  speak  is  false.  Samuel  Burton's  character  has 
been  sketched  after  long  and  intimate  confidences  with  many  con- 
victs. I  used  at  one  time  to  make  after  a  new  convict  as  I  would 
after  a  new  butterfly,  and  try  —  hopeless  task  !  —  to  find  out  when 
he  was  lying  and  when  he  was  telling  the  truth.  The  result  has 
been  Samuel  Burton.  But  I  have,  at  all  events,  found  out  two 
things.  The  first  is  that  a  man  who  has  just  told  you  with  infi- 
nite glee  about  the  share  he  had  in  robbing  a  church,  will  inva- 
riably deny,  with  virtuous  indignation,  that  he  had  any  share 
whatever  in  the  crime  for  which  he  was  transported.  His  brother 
always  did  that ;  and  his  wife,  in  a  moment  of  misplaced  confi- 
dence, received  the  stolen  property  into  the  house  in  a  basket  of 
greens,  which  was  found  standing  on  the  sink  when  the  "  traps  " 
came.  And  tlie  second  is  that,  until  we  can  catch  a  thorough- 
bred scoundrel,  with  high  literary  ability,  and  strict  regard  to 
truth,  we  had  better  not  talk  too  fast  about  the  reformation  of 
criminals. 

But  I  can  only  say  that  the  case  of  Samuel  Burton  was  just 
as  I  have  stated  it.  Sir  George  and  he  recognized  one  another 
at  once,  but  Sir  George  spoke  first. 

"  Is  it  you  in  the  flesh,  or  are  you  but  another  dream?" 
"  It  is  I,  Sir  George,  and  I  am  deeply  grieved  to  find  you  here, 
and  so  ill.     But  cheer  up,  sir,  we  will  set  you  right  in  no  time, 
sir.     You  must  come  over  to  Stanlake,  and  get  about,  sir.     You 
will  soon  be  well." 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  367 

• 

"  I  am  dying,  Samuel.  I  have  bceai  going  too  hard,  harder 
than  ever ;  and  you  know  how  liard  that  is  !  Whence  have  you 
come  ?  " 

"  From  Australia,  Sir  George." 

*'  So  you  were  tliere  all  the  time,"  said  Sir  George,  evincing  a 
feeble  interest.  "  Well,  all  that  is  over ;  I  forgive,  and  hope  to 
be  forgiven.  When  you  know  what  I  have  to  tell  you,  you  will 
use  your  power  mercifully." 

"  I  have  reason  to  believe  that  my  power  is  gone,  sir." 

"How  so?" 

"  Your  brother  Erne  is  dead." 

"  Poor  Erne  !     Tell  me  how." 

"  lie  died  gold-hunting,  sir." 

"  Poor  fellow  !  poor  fellow !  I  wonder  if  he  forgave  me  ?  " 

"  He  loved  you.  Sir  George." 

"  I  dare  say.  I  can  see  many  things  now.  I  would  put  much 
to  rights  if  I  lived.  I  dare  say  he  is  better  off  where  he  is. 
When  I  see  him  I  shall  tell  him  the  whole  business." 

"  But  you  are  not  going  to  die,  Sir  George ;  there  are  years 
of  life  in  you  yet.  Come,  sir,  you  must  get  well,  and  we  will 
put  things  on  another  footing." 

Sir  George  Hillyar  actually  laughed. 

"  AYhy  do  you  go  on  lying  to  a  dying  man,  Samuel ;  you  saw 
death  in  my  face,  or  you  would  never  have  told  me  that  Erne 
was  dead.  Morton  and  Reuben  are  on  the  stairs  now,  —  I  hear 
them.  If  Erne  is  dead,  I  have  strength  left  to  tell  them  to  hand 
you  over  to  the  next  policeman  for  the  Stanlake  robberies,  —  I 
holding  your  circumstantial  confession  of  them." 

"  You  would  n't  do  it,  Sir  George.  Come,  I  know  you  won't 
do  it.  See,  time  is  short ;  they  are  coming.  I  wish  I  may  be 
struck  dead  if  this  ain't  the  real  truth.  Mr.  Erne  is  not  known 
to  be  dead,  but  he  is  missing.  He  may  have  got  to  some  station 
on  the  Ovens,  or  Mitta,  or  King,  hard  up,  and  be  staying  there. 
You  won't  go  and  beggar  your  own  child,  and  ruin  me  at  this 
time  of  day.  The  wrong  is  done,  and  can't  be  mended  now. 
Die  silent,  sir,  like  a  fox.     Think  of  your  son,  sir." 

"  How  can  I  die  silent,  you  villain,"  said  poor  Sir  George,  rais- 
ing himself  in  bed,  "  with  you  here  persuading  me  to  leave  this 
miserable  world  with  an  act  of  rascality  ?  I  could  have  done  it, 
I  was  going  to  do  it,  for  I  don't  fear  death  like  you,  you  hound ; 
but  the  Devil,  nay,  it  may  be  God,  has  sent  you  here  to  put  the 
whole  v^illany  of  the  matter  before  me  once  more,  and  force  me 
either  to  ruin  my  heir  Reuben,  or  to  die  like  a  scoundrel,  with  a 
crime  against  poor  innocent  Erne  on  my  soul  Is  he  dead  or 
alive?  You  will  soon  be  either  one  or  the  other  if  you  tempt 
me  to  rise  from  this  bed  and  fall  upon  you." 


368  THE  HILLY AES  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"I  don't  know  rightly,  sir,"  said  Samuel,  rising  as  pale  as  a 
sheet.  "  Strike  me  blind  if  I  know.  I  was  only  begging  you  to 
let  things  go  on  as  they  were,  and  not  say  anything  about  the 
will  in  my  possession,  partly  because  I  am  an  old  man,  a  poor 
feeble  old  man,  sir,  and  partly  beciuise  I  should  not  like  to  see 
your  beautiful  little  angel  of  a  son,  —  I  should  not  like  to  see  that 
dear  child,  —  coming  into  my  hut  two  months  ago,  when  her  lady- 
ship lost  herself  in  the  bush,  and  he  came  into  my  poor  little 
place  like  a  praying  seraph,  —  because  I  should  not  like  to  see 
him  left  with  only  Stanlake,  mortgaged  over  head  and  ears  —  " 

Sir  Georije  laug-hed  again.  "  Mao-nificent  bathos,"  he  said. 
"  So  you  have  seen  my  wife  and  child,  hey  ?  But,  oh,  most 
strangely  complicated  liar,  I  was  not  thinking  of  that  poor  little 
brat,  but  of  my  dear  devoted  son  and  heir,  Reuben." 

"  Reuben  ?  " 

"  Yes,  Reuben.  That  poor  fool  deceived  us  all.  Curse  you, 
I  am  not  going  into  all  that  horrible  business  again  on  my  death- 
bed. Have  some  decency.  You  did  not  know  that  I  was  mar- 
ried in  Scotland.'^ 

"  I  did  not  accompany  you  to  Scotland,  sir." 

"  No.  Even  in  my  wickedness  I  had  grace  enough  left  to 
leave  you  behind.  The  new  atmosphere  was  at  all  events  purer 
than  the  old.     But  who  did  ?  " 

"  Young  Ben,  the  keeper's  son  from  the  Wiltshire  farms,  went 
with  you,  sir,  —  her  ladyship's  brother." 

"And  do  you  know  who  is  lying  on  that  sofa?  —  Ben,  old  fel- 
low, get  up ;  I  want  some  lemonade." 

The  giant  rose  up,  and  Samuel  was  puzzled  no  more.  He 
knew  him  now,  poor  drunken  Uncle  Ben.  "  I  will  get  you  your 
drink,  Sir  George,  if  you  will  allow  me,"  he  said.  And  Sir  George 
said,  "  Never  mind,  Ben  ;  lie  down  again  ; "  —  which  Uncle  Ben 
did. 

"  He  was  so  awfully  like  Mr.  Erne  when  he  was  asleep  that  I 
was  puzzled,"  said  Samuel.  "  Now,  Sir  George,  let  us  have  a  lit- 
tle quiet  talk  about  this  delusion  of  yours." 

"  Delusion  !  It  is  shared  among  others  by  Compton,  who  con- 
sider the  legal  evidence  quite  sufficient.  I  married  her  in  Scot- 
land. I  never  told  you  that —  Reuben  is  my  legitimate  son  — 
She  concealed  the  fact  from  Morton —  She  never  believed  her- 
self really  married,  and  I  hardly  thought  that  such  a  farce  could 
be  binding  in  law.  But  she  many  times  voluntarily  told  Ben  the 
whole  truth,  and  left  a  witnessed  statement.  It  is  no  use  to  fight 
against  facts,  you  know.  You  may  fight,  but  in  six  hours  Reu- 
ben will  be  in  possession  of  Stanlake.  And,  if  Erne  is  dead,  of 
the  rest." 

It  seemed  so  very  consistent,  and  so  very  like  truth,  that  Sam- 


THE  niLLYARS  AND  THE.  BURTONS.  369 

uel  felt  it  must  be  true.  Tlie  best  cards  were  all  in  his  adver- 
sary's hand,  and  liis  adversary  liad  shown  him  lii.s  cards,  careless 
whether  he  won  or  lost.  Poor  Samuel  had  but  three  ways  of 
playing,  —  threatening,  lying,  and  whining ;  and  now  he  tried 
the  last,  not  because  he  dreamt  of  its  succeeding,  —  for,  so  stony- 
hearted is  the  world,  tliat  he  had  never  found  it  do  any  good 
whatever,  —  but  because  —  because  —  Well,  I  do  not  know 
wliy  ;  they  always  do  it.  Detect  a  liar  for  yourself;  wait  till 
the  impudent  defiant  fit  is  over,  and  he  begins  to  whine,  and  then 
ask  him  what  he  expects  to  gain  by  it.  If  he  cannot  tell  you,  I 
am  sure  I  cannot. 

"  Are  you  going  to  have  no  mercy  on  a  poor  broken  old  man, 
Sir  George  ?  Are  you  going  to  take  my  boy  from  me,  and  leave 
me  no  one  to  comfort  and  console  me  on  the  way  to  my  miser- 
able grave  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Sir  George,  angrily.     "  I  wish  to  be  at  peace." 

Samuel  rose,  for  Morton  and  Reuben  were  in  the  room.  He 
went  and  talked  to  them  while  Sir  George  Hillyar  was  sleeping ; 
and  after  a  time  Mr.  Compton  came  in,  and  the  whole  miserable 
business  was  talked  through  between  him,  Uncle  Ben,  Mr. 
Compton,  and  Morton.  He  saw  that  the  proofs  were  over- 
wdielming,  and  after  a  time  went  and  sat  by  himself,  feeling,  poor 
dog,  more  unutterably  lonely,  deserted,  and  miserable  than  he 
had  ever  felt  in  his  life. 

He  sat  awake  all  night.  Towards  morning,  when  Mr.  Comp- 
ton had  gone,  and  the  other  three  were  asleep,  he  heard  Sir 
George  move,  and  instantly  went  towards  him.  Sir  George's 
face  was  calmer  now,  and  even  kind.  He  stretched  out  his  hand 
to  Samuel,  and  said,  — 

"  Let  us  forgive  one  another.  "We  have  both  to  receive  pun- 
ishment, but  my  mind  is  not  such  a  shifting  quicksand  as  yours, 
and  I  think  I  see  that  I  am  the  most  to  blame.  We  have  both 
fallen,  I  cannot  quite  see  why  or  how,  into  a  horrible  pit  full  of 
moral  evil ;  or,  to  put  it  more  truly,  I,  with  the  strongest  nature, 
fell,  and  dragged  you  w^ith  me.  You,  my  poor  Samuel,  don't 
know  truth  from  falsehood,  or  right  from  wrong  ;  I  doubt  if  you 
ever  did.  I  have  always  seen  the  difference,  and  in  consequence 
have  made  such  a  hell  of  this  world  that  I  have  some  idea,  — 
some  notion  —  But  I  have  nothing  to  go  upon,  except  my  own 
possibly  distorted  notions  of  justice.  What  matters  it  my  spec- 
ulating ?  I  shall  soon  be  in  possession  of  facts.  I  see  —  I  mean 
I  feel  —  one  thingr :  that  I  w^ish  to  forgive  and  be  forgiven  ;  and 
SO  I  tell  you  that  I  lui^'e  been  seeking  your  life  these  two  years. 
Can  you  forgive  that  ?  " 

"Yes!  yes!  But  you  are  not  going  to  die  !  You  could  not 
be  dying,  and  speak  so  calm  as  this !  " 

IG*  X 


^70  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  My  throat  is  even  now  choking.  The  effort  of  breathing  in 
my  next  sleep  will  wake  me,  and  you  will  hear  me  rattling,  and 
I  shall  die,  — probably  without  speaking.  Say  all  you  have  to 
say  now." 

"  But  are  you  not  afraid,  sir  ?     Is  it  not  terrible  to  die  ?  " 

"  What  on  earth  can  there  be  to  be  afraid  of  ?  The  future  is 
doubtful,  certainly,  —  the  sooner  over  the  better.  But  it  must 
come  sooner  or  later." 

"Certainly,  sir;  but  the  act  of  dying,  —  I  beg  pardon.  I 
have  to  say  to  you,  sir,  that  whatever  I  have  to  forgive  is  freely 
forgiven.  And,"  continued  Samuel,  in  a  burst  of  emotion,  really 
at  the  moment  heartfelt,  though  possibly  somewhat  out  of  place, 
"  you  have  much  to  forgive  also.  But,  tell  me,  sir,  what  I  am 
to  do  about  this  will  ?  " 

"/ don't  know,"  said  Sir  George  Hillyar;  "/can't  decide  a 
question  between  morality  and  sentiment  on  my  death-bed.  It 
depends  on  whether  Erne  is  dead  or  no.  I  don't  know  what  it 
depends  on.     I  thought  you  were  very  fond  of  Reuben." 

"  So  I  was,  sir.     But  what  is  Reuben  to  me  now  ?  " 

"  Then  you  never  loved  him  for  his  own  sake.  There  is  no 
doubt  of  his  paternity.     I  did." 

He  was  silent  after  this  for  some  time,  and  Samuel  thought  he 
was  asleep.  But  after  a  few  minutes  he  roused  up,  and  said 
again,  "  Is  all  forgiven  ?  "  And  Samuel  said,  "  All,  sir."  And 
then  he  fell  asleep. 

Samuel  sat  watching  him  till  near  six,  and  then  he  roused 
the  others.  Sir  George  was  right  as  to  the  result,  though 
wrono:  as  to  the  cause.  There  was  no  rattlina;  in  his  throat. 
The  cold  morning  air  found  its  way  to  his  drink-rotted  lungs, 
and  they  ceased  to  crepitate.     He  woke,  sighed,  and  died. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  871 


CHAPTER    LXX. 

REUBEN'S   TEMPTATION. 

Sir  Reuben  Hilltar  and  old  Morton  made  much  of  Sam- 
uel, and  explained  to  him  the  circumstance  of  his  being  there. 
After  some  time  Morton  and  Uncle  Ben  left,  and  Reuben  and 
Samuel  were  alone  together. 

"•  Can  we  go  anywhere  and  have  some  conversation  together, 
Sir  Reuben  ?  "  said  Samuel. 

It  was  the  first  time  lie  had  been  called  by  his  title,  and  he 
started.  He  proposed  that  they  should  go  to  a  room  over  the 
way,  and  so  they  went. 

It  was  an  exceedingly  awkward  interview.  Samuel  sat  with 
his  head  buried  in  his  hands,  and  did  not  speak.  Reuben  had  to 
begin. 

'•  I  am  afraid  you  feel  this  very  keenly.  I  was  shocked  at 
first  at  our  change  of  relationship,  for  you  were  very  kind  to  me. 
I  thank  you  for  all  your  kindness  to  me,  and  shall  always  re- 
main fond  of  you." 

Still  no  answer.  Reuben  saw  that  the  old  man  was  crying, 
and  spoke  to  him  still  more  gently. 

''  I  am  very  sorry  that  w^e  should  have  to  separate,  but  I  fear 
that  it  would  not  be  safe  for  you  to  remain  in  England.  Your 
company  was  always  pleasant  to  me,  even  when  it  involved 
danger." 

'*  We  never  had  one  word  together,  Reuben,  —  had  we  ?  "  said 
Samuel,  who  had  now  found  his  voice. 

"  Never  one,"  said  Reuben.  "  I  fear  you  must  have  thought 
me  unkind  in  not  communicating  with  you  lately,  but  he  had 
persuaded  me  of  all  this  long  before  Uncle  Ben  came  to  Sir 
George  to  unbosom  himself  about  what  my  mother  had  told  him, 
and  to  ask  his  advice.  That  was  the  reason  of  my  silence.  I 
could  not  write  to  you,  '  my  dear  father,'  could  I  ?  " 

"  I  was  right,  then,  in  thinking  that  it  was  his  doing,"  said 
Samuel.  "  It  is  lucky  for  all  of  us  that  he  did  not  provoke  me 
to  do  something  which  I  had  it  in  my  power  to  do,  —  very  lucky. 
If  I  had  been  aggravated  into  putting  Erne  on  the  throne,  I 
should  liave  been  sorry  for  it  now." 

Reuben,  not  understanding  what  he  meant,  and  hearing  Erne's 
name,  said,  — 

"  And  so  poor  Erne  is  dead  ?  " 


372  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  Don't  you  be  so  sure  of  that,  my  —  Sir  Reuben.  Don't 
be  too  sure  of  that.     You  may  find  yourself  a  beggar  yet." 

"How  so?" 

"  Like  thi>?,  my  dear  sir.  The  late  Sir  George  Hillyar  — 
your  grandfather  I  am  alluding  to  —  made  a  will,  by  wliich  he 
left  £8000  a  year  to  Mr.  Erne,  and  only  Stanlake  and  £2000  to 
your  fatlier.  If  Mr.  Erne  were  not  dead,  —  and,  if  you  press 
me  hard,  I  don't  think  he  is,  —  the  production  of  that  will  would 
ruin  you,  would  it  not  ?  " 

"  I  suppose  it  would.     Well  ?  " 

"  That  will  is  in  my  possession,"  whispered  Samuel  eagerly. 
"  I  stole  it.     Ha  !  ha !     What  do  you  think  of  that  ?     Stole  it ! " 

"  I  hope  you  will  give  it  up." 

"  It  ruins  you.  Do  you  see  ?  Silence !  Was  that  any  one 
coming  ?  Here  it  is.  Take  it ;  there  is  the  fire,  do  you  see  ? 
blazing  high.     Be  quick  ;  it  will  soon  be  over." 

The  old  man  actually  drew  the  will  from  his  breast-pocket,  and 
put  it,  —  with  his  long  thin  fingers  trembling  while  he  grudgingly 
relinquished  the  terrible  power  which  he  had  held  so  long,  —  into 
Reuben's  hand.     Reuben  took  it  and  looked  at  it,  saying,  — 

"  Well,  this  beats  everything.  This  is  actually  the  will,  is  it  ? 
Well,  it 's  a  nuisance,  but  it  can't  be  helped.  I  must  drop  my 
title  and  emigrate,  I  suppose."  So  saying,  he  put  the  will  in  his 
breast  and  buttoned  his  coat  over  it. 

"  Put  it  in  the  fire,  you  fool,"  said  old  Samuel,  clutching  Reu- 
ben's arm  witli  his  long  fingers ;  "  put  it  in  the  fire,  or  1  '11  tear 
it  away  from  you  again.  If  you  were  to  meet  with  an  accident 
and  that  was  found  on  you,  you  'd  be  transported." 

"  It  shan't  be  on  me  long,"  said  Reuben.  "  It  shall  be  in  Mr. 
Compton's  hands  in  an  hour." 

"  I  '11  tear  it  from  you  !  "  said  Samuel.  "  You  dare  n't,  —  you 
won't,  —  hit  an  old  man  like  me.  And  I  '11  tear  it  out  of  your 
heart  if  you  don't  give  it  to  me.  Damn  you,  do  you  think  I  am 
going  to  sit  by  and  see  my  game  thrown  to  the  four  winds  like 
this  ?  I  gave  it  to  you  from  pure  love,  a'nd  now  you  are  going 
to  do  justice  with  it !  Do  you  think  I  perilled  my  life  and  my 
immortal  soul  to  have  justice  done  ?  Confound  you,  I  '11  have  it 
back  again.  I  '11  tear  it  out  of  your  heart,  you  false,  ungrateful 
lad.     Give  it  up  !  " 

The  old  man  threw  himself  on  to  Sir  Reuben,  and  plucked  at 
the  breast  of  liis  coat.  But  Reuben  laid  his  strong  hand  quietly 
on  the  old  man's  breast,  and  merely  said,  "  Steady,  steady,  dad. 
Remember,  for  God's  sake  what  the  effect  of  a  row  would  be 
hero,  and  now  !  " 

Samuel  was  quiet  in  an  instant.  He  sat  down  and  began  an- 
other line  of  action,  far  more  dangerous  to  Reuben  than  any 
amount  of  violence  would  have  been. 


THE  HILLYAKS  AND  THE   BURTONS.  373 

He  waited  a  little  before  he  began.     At  last  he  said, — 

"  It 's  a  fine  thing  to  be  a  baronet." 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Reuben  ;  "  but  I  have  n't  thought  about 
it  yet.     I  have  n't  realized  my  position." 

"  I  'd  sooner,"  said  Samuel,  with  a  tli>Bughtful  expression,  "  foi 
my  part,  be  a  sweep,  or  what  is  worse,  a  cooper,  —  nay  a  night 
man,  than  be  a  Bart,  without  property." 

Reuben  said,  "  Ah  !  " 

"  You  have  no  prestige.  Nobody  cares  for  a  Bart.  If  you 
were  a  lord,  with  a  seat  in  the  Upper  House,  that 's  another 
thing.  Your  order  would  take  care  of  you.  I  believe  there  's  a 
fund  for  poor  lords.  But  a  Bart. !  Lord  !  the  things  I  've  seen 
poor  Barts.  drove  to.  Some  of  them  goes  on  the  stage  for  a 
time,  till  the  public  are  sick  of  'era.  Some  of  them  billiard- 
marks  ;  all  of  them  trades  on  their  title,  and  takes  to  drink. 
There  is  no  place  for  a  broken-down  Bart,  under  heaven ;  and 
that 's  what  you  are  unless  you  put  that  paper  in  the  fire." 

No  particular  effect  on  Reuben ;  at  least,  no  answer. 

"  Ah,  how  bitterly  you  '11  find  that  out  in  a  year's  time,  with 

nothing  but  Stanlake,  and  Erne's  claims  upon  it !     Why,  if  he 

presses  his  claim,  you  are  a  ruined  and  miserable  man :  and  it  is 

not  too  late  to  alter  it,  even  yet." 

Poor  Reuben  befjan  to  look  hafjcrard  and  thoufirhtful.     Who 

111 
can  blame  him  that  in  the  first  flush  of  his  new  fortunes  he  had 

looked  forward  with  delighted  anticipation  to  the  splendid  future  ? 

He  had  built  already  a  grand  edifice  of  fancy  for  himself ;  and 

here  sat  old  Samuel,  with  his  cowering  face  half  turned  upwards 

towards  him,  inexorably,  with  infinite  dexterity,  pulling  it  down 

about  his  ears ;  and  yet  reminding  him  that  he  still  held  in  his 

hand  the  power  of  rebuilding  it  in  one  instant.     He  began  to  get 

very  unhappy.     Samuel  saw  that  he  was  producing  an  efiect,  and 

changed  his  tune  with  infinite  knowledge  of  his  man. 

'•  But  don't  let  us  talk  any  more  of  this.  There  's  a  bright 
future  before  you ;  and,  if  Mr.  Erne  is  alive,  you  may  make  it 
up  to  him." 

'•  Is  he  alive,  or  is  he  not  ?  "  said  Reuben  impatiently.  "  One 
time  you  say  one  thing,  and  at  another  time  another." 

"  He  is  alive  sure  enough,"  said  Samuel.  "  But  listen  to  me. 
Do  you  know  all  the  pleasuT-es  of  ten  thousand  a  year,  lad? 
Have  you  ever  thought  of  them  ?  Have  you  ever  thought  of 
what  you  are  giving  up  ?  Why,  your  position,  in  case  of  your 
not  making  a  fool  of  yourself,  will  be  one  of  the  most  enviable  in 
the  whole  world.  Think  of  what  it  is  to  be  a  country  gentle- 
man, and  how  well  you  are  suited  for  it.  There  's  your  horses 
and  dogs  now ;  and  what 's  to  prevent  your  taking  the  Vine 
hounds  into  your  own  hands,  declining  subscriptions,  and  making 


374  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

a  king  of  yourself?  Or  your  horses,  once  more  !  Is  there  any- 
thing against  Sir  Reuben  Hillyar  owning  a  Dutchman  or  a  Vol- 
tigeur,  having  his  share  in  the  maddest  five  minutes  of  the  year,  — 
ay,  and  coming  out  the  envied  of  England  ?  Boy,  boy  !  you  have 
heard  them  coming  over  Jhe  gi*ass,  four  or  five  of  them  together, 
so  close  that  you  might  lay  a  table-cloth  over  them.  You  know 
that  maddening  music,  do  you  ?  Why,  I  am  an  old  man,  but  it 
sends  the  blood  buzzing  and  tingling  into  my  ears  even  now 
when  I  think  of  it.  Don't  say  I  have  n't  hit  you  there ;  for  I 
saw  your  eye  kindle  ;  you  are  a  born  sportsman.  And  Morton 
says  you  are  shooting  beautifully.  Ah,  dear !  those  woodcocks  in 
the  hollies :  it  takes  a  man  for  them." 

Reuben  said,  "  Well ;  have  you  done  ?  " 

"  The  girls,  the  lasses,  the  ladies,  hey,"  continued  old  Samuel, 
as  though  he  had  n't  heard  him.  "  The  real  ladies.  The  care- 
fully educated  women,  ugly  or  pretty, —  the  women  formed  by 
the  traditions  of  a  dozen  generations  of  refinement.  You  fool ; 
do  you  know  what  you  are  throwing  away  by  cutting  yourself 
off  from  all  hopes  of  coming  near  them  ?  I  do.  I  was  brought 
up  among  them,  and  used  to  watch  their  ways ;  and  the  recollec- 
tion of  them  used  to  make  the  hulks,  and  the  prison,  and  the 
wretched  pot-house  life  into  which  I  was  driven,  a  hell  to  me ; 
for  /  was  born  for  a  gentleman.  Have  n't  I  waited  on  them  ; 
and  don't  I  know  how  the  very  plainest  of  them  gets,  from  the 
very  air  in  which  she  lives,  a  grace  and  a  refinement,  —  a  power 
of  fascination  which  no  girl  in  our  rank  of  life  can  even  under- 
stand ?     I  know  this  ;  and  you " 

Reuben  rose.  "  How  many  of  them  are  like  Emma  Bur- 
ton ?  "  he  said.  "  How  many  of  them  would  have  followed  me 
to  the  den  to  which  you  led  me,  and  have  saved  me  at  the  risk 
of  her  life  ?  She  is  my  model  of  a  woman,  and  I  want  none  bet- 
ter. She  always  led  me  from  evil,  and  showed  me  good.  If 
Erne  is  dead,  my  life  and  fortune  shall  be  devoted  to  taking  his 
place,  so  help  me  God.  She  may  forget  him  in  time ;  and  I  may 
grow  worthy  of  her  in  time.  It  is  that  glorious  girl's  influence," 
continued  he,  snarling  in  his  speech,  as  his  cockney,  poco  ciiranle 
etiquette  broke  down  under  stress  of  circumstances, "  that  enables 
me  to  tell  you  that  what  you  wish  me  to  do  is  impossible,  for 
that,  if  I  did  it,  I  should  never  dare  to  look  upon  her  face 
again." 

They  spoke  no  more  together.  Before  the  silence  had  become 
awkward,  Mr.  Compton's  voice  was  heard  outside,  inquiring  for 
Sir  Reuben  Hillyar.  Reuben  went  out  to  him,  and  taking  the 
will  from  his  breast-pocket,  held  it  out  to  him,  smiling. 

"  Do  you  know  this  paper?"  he  said. 

"  Good  God  ! "  said  Compton.     "  It  is  your  grandfather's  will. 


TIIK   IIILLYAKS   AND   THE   BURTONS.  375 

/  know  it  well  enough,  for  I  drew  it  up.  It  is  the  will  that 
conld  n't  be  found,  llow  on  earth  did  you  come  by  it?  You 
must  have  stronger  faith  in  Erne's  death  than  I  have,  from  that 
miserable  old  liar's  account,  or  you  would  have  put  it  in  the  fire. 
Where  on  earth  has  it  been  ?  " 

"  It  has  been  on  its  travels,"  said  Sir  Reuben,  pointing  over 
his  shoulder  towards  the  room  where  Samuel  Burton  still  eat. 
"  Lady  Ilillyar's  liver-and-tan  spaniel  found  it  on  the  floor,  and 
seeing  it  smelt  meaty,  being  parchment,  began  gnawing  it ;  when 
in  cauie  her  ladyship's  white  Persian  cat,  with  her  three  white 
kittens,  wanting  some  of  it,  considering  as  a  mother  of  three  that 
the  assertion  of  her  rights  was  a  sacred  duty.  And  the  dog, 
conceiving  them,  from  their  color  and  from  the  solemnity  of  their 
demeanor,  to  be  avenging  angels,  hooked  it  up  the  chimney,  and 
shut  the  register  after  him,  having  forgotten,  in  his  guilty  terror, 
to  let  go  of  the  will" 

"  My  dear  Sir  Eeuben  !  "  put  in  Mr.  Compton. 

"  And,"  continued  Reuben,  determined  to  atone  for  his  late  ex- 
hibition of  earnestness  by  going  into  higher  flights  of  nonsense 
than  he  had  ever  attempted  heretofore,  and  rising  to  the  circum- 
stances, "  that  dog  remained  in  that  chimney  for  four  days,  some- 
times trying  to  get  out  at  the  top,  from  which  he  was  prevented 
by  the  cowl ;  sometimes  attempting,  with  a  perseverance  and  an 
intelligence  to  which  the  attention  of  writers  on  the  natural  his- 
tory of  the  friend  of  man  cannot  be  called  too  soon,  to  raise  the 
register  with  his  fore  feet.  During  all  this  time  the  dog,  whether 
terrified  by  his  position,  or  (as  seems  more  probable)   beginning 

to  feel  a  natural  remorse  at  having  abstracted " 

"  Now  steady,  my  dear  Sir  Reuben,"  put  in  Mr.  Compton. 
"  Never  mind  where  this  will  has  been.  We  have  got  it  now. 
That  is  all." 

"  Say  no  more  about  it,"  said  Reuben.  "  I  will  tell  you,  when 
it  is  safe  to  do  so,  the  story  about  it.  Meanwhile,  if  it  is  good  in 
law,  let  it  take  effect.  If  Erne  is  dead,  I  will  devote  half  my 
life  to  win  Emma  Burton." 


.^76  THE  HILLY ARS  AKD  THE  BURTONS. 


CHAPTER    LXXI  . 

JAMES   BURTON'S   STORY. 

And  so  poor  Erne  was  dead  !  Noble,  affectionate  Erne  Hill- 
yar,  who  had  lit  down  among  all  the  commonplace  squalor  of 
Chelsea,  and  had  made  friends  with  me  above  all  other  lads,  and 
had  taught  me  to  love  him  also,  he  was  dead.  The  fate  which 
seemed  to  hang  over  the  two  houses  whenever  they  were  brought 
together  had  stooped  down  once  more.  He  had  fallen  in  love 
with  my  sister ;  and  she,  refusing  him  through  a  foolish  over- 
strained sense  of  duty,  had  made  him  desperate,  and  he  had  gone 
south,  and  was  dead. 

I  was  not  angry  with  her  about  it.  I  thank  God  now  that  I 
never  blamed  her ;  I  loved  her  too  well  for  that,  and  I  felt,  I 
think,  in  a  less  degree,  every  arrow  of  grief  which  went  through 
her  heart.  When,  after  the  third  day,  she  fled  to  me  —  to  me  of 
all  others  —  for  comfort,  I  took  her  to  my  heart,  and  felt  some- 
thing like  a  gleam  of  sunshine.  Though  I  had  persuaded  her, 
almost  bullied  her  to  forego  her  silly  resolution,  yet  she  loved  me 
above  all  others  yet.  I  knew  that  she  did  not  fly  to  me  because 
I  had  loved  him  who  was  dead  best  of  living  men,  and  was  the 
more  likely  to  talk  of  him.  I  was  quite  sure  of  that,  and  I  think 
I  am  so  now.  No  :  on  consideration  I  am  certain  she  came  to 
me  because  she  loved  me  for  my  own  sake,  better  than  all  the 
world,  now  that  he  was  gone. 

In  the  old  days  when  I  used  to  go  courting  Martha  by  Clerken- 
well  Prison,  where  we  used  to  get  the  omnibus  and  go  out  to 
Hampstead  Heath  and  wander  all  day,  hand-in-hand,  among  the 
furze-bushes,  until  the  time  came  for  her  to  go  back  to  her  hide- 
ous drudgery,  we  two  intensely -happy  fools  used  to  talk  about  this 
Erne  Ilillyar,  until  Martha  believed  in  him  like  a  god.  She  be- 
lieved in  me  to  an  immense  extent,  and  does  so  still,  I  think.  I 
think  that  at  this  very  time  she  has  a  lurking  belief  that  I  not 
only  found  the  copper-mine,  but  made  the  copper  and  put  it  there 
ready  to  be  found,  and  that  consequently  she  looks  on  the  copper- 
works  as  a  triumph  of  sagacity  on  her  part,  in  having  selected  me 
to  keep  company  with  in  the  old  times  when  I  was  only  a  black- 
smith's apprentice.  She  believed  in  P]rne,  from  my  account  of 
him,  as  some  one  who  moved  in  a  higher  sphere  than  ours,  pos- 
sessed of  qualities  to  which  we  could  never  attain.  Her  mother 
had  taught  her,  either  before  her  Catechism,  or  else  with  such 


THE  HILLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS.  377 

remarkable  emphasis,  that  the  Catechism  sank  into  insignificance, 
that  gentlemen  were  wolves  and  scoundrels,  and  that  she  was 
never  to  say  anythinij  more  to  a  gentleman  than  yes  or  no.  But 
she  had  never  considered  Erne  to  be  a  gentleman.  She  went 
about  with  me  during  our  courtship  on  that  very  question.  "You 
profess  to  love  him,"  she  said,  "  and  call  him  thatJ^  I  wa^  obliged 
to  keep  the  fact  of  Saint  Erne  being  a  gentleman  in  the  back- 
ground. 

AVlien  that  pretty  cracked  little  Lady  Hillyar  came  wandering 
to  our  house,  asking  to  be  taken  care  of,  Emma  brightened  up  a 
little,  and  accepted  her  work  cheerfully ;  she  went  south  again 
and  left  me  alone  in  my  grief.  I  say  comparatively  alone,  for  I 
think  that  my  wife's  grief  was  mainly  for  me;  and  I  tried  to  hide  it 
from  her  as  much  as  possible.  I  could  not  bear  the  anxious  look 
that  came  in  that  dear  face  when  she  saw  me  moping  and  brood- 
ing, or  those  pitiful  offerings  up  of  the  baby,  to  be  kissed,  at  the 
shrine  of  her  love.  Dear  soul,  she  did  not  know  what  to  say  to 
comfort  me  ;  but  she  had  found  the  baby  a  sovereign  remedy  for 
every  small  vexation  in  her  own  case,  and  so  she  used  to  adminis- 
ter it  to  me  whenever  my  head  went  down  upon  my  hands,  and 
my  face  grew  vacant  as  my  mind  wandered  off  after  what  might 
have  been.  Baby  was  very  well  for  a  few  minutes;  but  it  was 
too  young  to  talk,  and  was  generally  given  back  to  its  mother, 
who  stood  with  anxious  eyes  watching  the  father's  face.  God 
bless  thee,  wife  !  Summer  and  winter  come  and  go  ;  the  storm 
rattles  over  head,  and  goes  crashing  and  booming  away  towards 
the  mountains,  and  leaves  a  sky  of  cloudless  blue  behind  it  from 
horizon  to  zenith ;  but  thy  love  has  never  waxed  or  waned,  — 
neither  in  gingham  and  woollen,  nor,  as  we  are  now,  in  brocade 
and  diimaonds. 

I  suspect  that,  if  I  had  n't  been  brought  up  a  blacksmith,  1 
should  have  been  something  else,  provided  I  had  brains  enough; 
on  which  last  point  I  am  not  sure,  but  on  wdiich  my  family  seemed 
to  have  satisfied  themselves  in  the  negative  ;  though  why  they 
always  come  to  me  about  all  questions,  which  any  brains  of  a  bet- 
ter quality  than  those  of  a well could  have  settled  in  a 

moment,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  conceive.  I  suspect  also  that  there  is 
some  of  the  poetical  faculty  about  me  (hitherto  strictly  latent), 
becau-e  I  am  accustomed  to  walk  out  of  nights,  when  anything 
goes  wrong. 

I  took  to  doing  this  now,  because  I  was  in  really  deep  distress 
about  Erne,  and  because  I  found  that  these  long  night-walks  made 
me  sleep  soundly,  until  the  time  came  for  me  to  get  up  and  go  to 
the  mine.  Men  at  twenty-one  can  do  with  wonderfully  little 
sleep,  and  an  amazing  deal  of  work.  You  see  there  is  so  much 
more  phosphorus  in  the  brain  then,  or  something  of  that  kind. 


378  THE  HILLYAES  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

And  again,  although  I  had  intended  these  night-walks  of  mine 
to  be  solitary  walks  in  which  I  might  think  over  the  memory  of 
him  who  was  gone,  yet  it  was,  perhaps,  fortunate  for  me  that  my 
humor  was  not  allowed  to  have  its  course.  I  soon  had  a  com- 
panion. 

Trevittick  was  a  man  who  scorned  to  do  anything  like  any  one 
else,  and  he  kept  up  his  character  on  this  occasion.  Knowing 
what  an  affectionate  nature  he  really  had  beneath  his  quaint  shell, 
and  knowing  how  deeply  he  had  attaclied  himself  to  poor  Tom 
Williams,  I  dreaded  the  burst  of  grief  which  would  ensue  when 
he  heard  of  his  death,  not  only  on  account  of  his  loss  here,  but 
because  I  felt  sure  that  Trevittick  would,  like  a  thorough  Heau- 
tontimoroumenos,  torture  himself  with  some  insane  speculation 
on  the  probable  destiny  of  poor  Tom's  soul.  What  was  my  aston- 
ishment at  his  receiving  the  news  with  a  burst  of  thanksgiving, 
and  at  his  going  about  his  work  that  day  with  an  air  of  pious 
cheerfulness.  I  really  did  not  know  whether  to  laugh,  or  to  be 
provoked  at,  this  new  vagary  of  his.  But,  in  the  evening,  my 
curiosity  to  know  in  what  way  he  would  account  for  his  conduct, 
in  what  light  he  would  put  the  matter  before  his  strangely-dis- 
torted mind,  overcame  my  manners,  and  I  asked  him  to  explain. 

He  scornfully  doubted  if  a  person  so  dead  to  higher  religious 
life  as  I,  was  capable  of  understanding  his  explanation. 

I  simply  said  I  would  try. 

He  then  said  that  he  had  every  reason  to  believe  that  Tom, 
though  unawakened,  was  elect ;  that  the  elect  who  died  before 
their  awakening,  entered  into  glory,  into  a  higher  destiny  than 
was  possible  for  us ;  for  they  were  awakened  in  bliss  unutterable, 
whereas  we  must  wait  and  wander,  and  fall  and  rise,  and  only 
afar  off 

Here  the  poor  fellow  completely  broke  down.  The  outward 
exhibition  of  his  grief  was  as  wild  and  fierce  as  his  self-command 
had  been  wonderful.  It  was  a  long  time  before  that  powerful 
mouth  could  set  itself  once  more,  still  longer  before  I  ceased  to 
detect  a  fluttering  of  the  lip  when  he  spoke. 

He  was  very  angry  with  himself  and  with  me  about  this  out- 
break. On  the  very  next  occasion,  which  occurred  immediately, 
he  "  gave  it  to  me  "  in  right  good  earnest.  I,  speaking  from  my 
heart,  and  thinking  in  some  way  to  comfort  him,  said,  — 

"  Poor  Tom  Williams  !  —  poor  dear  Tom  !  " 

He  fired  up  immediately.  He  said  I  was  blaspheming,  to  ap- 
ply the  epithet  "  poor "  to  a  saint  in  glory.  He  said  I  was  as 
bad  as  a  miserable  idiot  of  an  old  woman  at  a  funeral,  who  in  one 
breath  would  speak  of  the  deceased  as  being  happy  in  heaven, 
and  in  the  next  would  "poor  dear"  him  and  begin  howling.  I 
took  his  rebuke  in  my  usual  ox-like  manner,  and,  moreover,  did 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  379 

not  laugh,  —  which  I  somehow  felt  inclined  to  do,  —  at  the 
quaint  mixture  of  sentimentality,  sliame  of  that  sentimentality, 
fanaticism,  and  logical  thought  which  he  showed  ;  and  which, 
combined  witli  extravagance  and  avarice  in  about  equal  portions, 
and  a  •""  clannishness  "  —  a  belief  in  Cornwall  and  things  Cornish 
—  before  which  the  Scotticism  of  Professor  Blackie  shows  like 
a  feeble,  half-developed  instinct,  make  up  the  character  of  that 
stiange  race  who  live  beyond  the  Tamar,  and  many  of  whom 
are  about  as  much  like  Englishmen  as  tlie  Samoeydes. 

I  only  went  for  one  walk  alone,  and  then  he  found  me  out. 
The  next  time  I  started  he  was  waitinjT  for  me,  and  I  was  "-lad 
of  his  company,  for  the  weather  was  deadly  still,  dull,  and  sul- 
try, and  there  was  no  movement  in  the  forest ;  except  sometimes 
the  distant  crack  and  crash  of  a  falling  bough  ;  and  now  and 
then,  while  the  blood-red  moon  hung  overhead,  the  wild  wail  of 
a  native  dog,  like  the  feeble  cry  of  a  dying  child ;  which  faded 
away  into  silence,  and  left  the  hot  oppressiveness  of  the  forest 
more  unbearable  than  before.  It  was  not  well  to  walk  alone  in 
the  forest  at  midnight  that  summer. 

We  never  made  any  arrangement  as  to  where  we  should 
walk  ;  but  our  feet,  by  some  tacit,  unexpressed  instinct,  always 
carried  us  the  same  way,  almost  to  the  same  spot,  —  southward, 
to  the  summit  of  the  Cape  Wilberforce  Mountain,  where  we 
could  look  over  the  sleeping  forest,  stretched  out  beneath  the  lurid 
moon,  towards  Victoria,  the  land  where  our  unburied  loved  ones 
lay  dead. 

I  used  to  talk  but  little.  I  was  unable,  either  by  education  or 
intellect,  to  hold  my  own  with  Trevittick  in  argument.  He 
alone  talked.  He  talked  to  me  a  great  deal,  but  I  soon  found 
that  he  was  talking  to  himself,  —  was  using  me  as  a  "  Speak- 
er," as  a  man  set  there  for  him  to  put  his  cases  to,  like  the  per- 
sonages in  Plato's  dialogues,  put  up  to  be  demolished ;  as  a  man 
to  whom  he  might,  witliout  personality,  vent  his  strange  theories 
about  God's  dealings  with  man,  —  theories  got  principally  from 
the  Old  Testament,  which  he  had,  as  it  were,  eaten  raw,  witliout 
any  salt  of  scholastic  divinity  whatever,  and  which  had  conse- 
quently disagreed  with  him  terribly,  and  sometimes  nearly 
driven  him  mad.  In  some  of  his  moods  he  would  claim  that 
there  was  a  higher  law,  which  we  were  incapable  of  understand- 
ing,—  a  law  which  set  aside  our  notions  of  human  morality;  in 
another,  that  the  deepest  and  most  subtle  lesson  which  the  Old 
Testament  taught  was  that  morality  was  unnecessary  to  under- 
standing God,  wliich  was  tlie  only  object  of  life  :  nay,  more,  that 
it  was  a  stumbling-block  set  before  our  feet  by  the  fiend.  This  he 
would  illustrate  by  such  questions  as  that  of  the  assassination  of 
tyrants  ;  in  such  a  temper,  too,  as  made  me  feel  certain  that,  if 


380  THE  HILLYARS  A.s'D  THE  BURTONS. 

Cardinal  "Wiseman  ever  did  preacli  in  Westminster  Abbey,  and 
Trevittick  happened  to  be  among  the  congregation,  his  Eminence 
would  meet  with  an  accident,  and  one  of  the  best  preachers  in 
England  would  preach  no  more.  At  another  time  maintaining, 
and  uncommonly  well,  that  the  right  of  taking  human  life  was 
taken  from  man  the  morning  when  Christ  was  born.  Such  a 
mass  of  rambling,  confused  thought  was  never  yet  put  before  a 
half-educated  man  as  Trevittick  put  before  me  during  these 
midnight  walks ;  and  the  man  was  so  clever,  and  so  amazingly 
eloquent  too,  that  he  dragged  me  triumphantly  at  the  wheels  of 
his  chariot,  and  fully  persuaded  me  of  each  of  his  theories  in 
succession ;  until,  sometimes,  coming  home  in  the  morning,  as 
the  ghastly  red  sun  had  risen,  and  left  the  moon  hanging  over- 
head with  a  sickly,  pale  face,  as  of  an  obstinate  ghost  who  had 
refused  to  depart  at  cockcrow,  I  used  to  deliberate  whether  or 
no  Baby  himself,  lying  with  his  tender  fingers  tangled  in  my 
wife's  hair,  was  not  an  invention  of  the  fiend,  sent  to  lure  me  to 
my  destruction. 

Heaven  defend  me  from  having  that  Weather  and  that  Man 
sent  to  me  at  the  same  time  again  !  I  should  go  mad.  I  could 
possibly,  having  the  constitution  of  an  ox,  pull  through  either 
separately  ;  but  both  together.  Bah  !  I  can  make  no  more  fun 
for  you,  reader.  If  you  want  any  more  of  that,  shut  up  the 
book  here,  and  say  good-bye.  But  these  midnight  walks  with 
him  had  a  strange,  unhealthy  fascination  for  me  in  my  present 
state  of  mind ;  and  I  continued  them. 

One  nijrht  we  sat  tos^ether  on  the  summit  of  the  mountain. 
The  stillness  had  grown  stiller,  and  the  heat  had  got  more  in- 
tense ;  the  blessed  sea  itself,  the  fresh,  restless,  changing  sea, 
was  now  merely  a  dull  gleaming  sheet  of  copper  beneath  the 
blurred  and  ragged  moon ;  there  was  no  sound  in  the  long-spread 
forest,  for  the  rivers  were  silent  in  the  horrible  unnatural  heat, 
and  the  native  dogs  were  crouched  in  their  lair,  urged  by  an  in- 
stinct of  fear  more  delicate  than  our  own. 

We  sat  on  the  grass  with  our  hats  off,  and  our  throats  bare, 
for  some  time  without  speaking  ;  at  last  I  said,  — 

"  After  all  you  have  said  on  both  sides,  Trevittick,  you  have 
left  me  with  a  confused  idea  that  there  is  some  injustice  in  the 
death  of  Erne  and  Tom  Williams.  They  were  so  good  and  so 
innocent.  What  had  they  done  to  deserve  such  a  horrible 
fate  ?  " 

We  sat  without  speaking  for  some  time  after  this.  I  knew  I 
had  offended  Trevittick.  For  him  to  find  all  his  high-wrought 
teaching  traversed  by  a  commonplace  remark  of  this  kind  would, 
I  knew,  make  him  angry.  But,  God  forgive  me,  I  felt  what  I 
said.     It  did  seem  to  me  so  very,  very  hard. 


THE  UILLYARS  AND  TUE  BURTONS.  331 

I  cannot  say  how  long  tlie  silence  lasted,  but  suddenly  we 
moved  closer  together,  and  tried  to  seize  one  another's  hands  in 
tlie  dark.  For  down  m  the  south,  among  the  dim,  still  forest 
ranges,  we  heard  the  first  low  muttering  of  an  approaching 
earthquake. 

The  sound  of  it  changed  from  a  dull  muttering  into  an  angry 
snarl,  and  then  into  a  confused  jarring  roar ;  but,  before  it 
reached  us,  it  had  passed  into  silence,  and  had  only  left  strange 
humming  echoes  in  the  hot  heavy  air.  The  vast  mass  of  trap 
rock  on  which  we  sat,  crossing  the  crack  in  the  earth  at  right 
angles,  had  stopped  it.  We  looked  hurriedly  towards  Port 
Romilly ;  the  ramparts  of  Cape  Wilberforce  had  saved  the  town. 
The  few  lights  burning  burnt  as  steadily  as  ever. 

After  a  time  Trevittick  spoke.  "The  heathenish  nonsense 
you  were  talking,"  he  said,  "•  before  the  Lord  rebuked  you  by 
shaking  the  solid  earth  under  your  feet,  arises  from  this  error,  — 
that  the  world  is  the  place  of  rewards  and  punishments.  That 
is  a  lie  of  the  Devil's.  If  you  believe  that,  you  cannot  at  the 
same  time  believe  in  the  justice  of  God.  You  have  seen  one 
instance  in  proof  of  it,  and  have  rebelled  against  that.  IMind 
lest  God  send  you  another  and  more  terrible  one." 

I  remembered  his  words  afterwards. 

"  The  best  man  ever  I  knew  was  burnt  to  death,  and  died  in 
horrible  agonies,  trying  to  save  a  widow's  house.  You  lay  that 
to  your  heart ;  else  when  the  time  comes  you  will  most  bitterly 
repent  it." 


CHAPTER    LXXII. 

THE   OMEO  DISASTER. 

Poor  Erne  !  His  troubles  had  very  quickly  begun.  By  the 
time  he  reached  the  lake,  he  was  quite  blind  with  sand  blight, 
and  unable  to  do  anything.  It  was  only  by  degrees  that  the 
light  broke  in  upon  him,  and  then  the  blazing  of  the  great  sheets 
of  snow  which  hung  in  horizontal  lines,  or  rolled  up  into  gentle 
curves,  round  three  quarters  of  the  horizon,  made  him  fain  to 
shut  them  again. 

He  found  that  busy  Tom  Williams  had  pitched  their  tent  in 
the  deep  shade  of  a  group  of  lightwood  trees,  on  a  rising  ground 
overlooking  the  lake,  which  began  about  a  hundred  and  fifty 
yards  from  them,  and  stretched  away  for  five-and-twenty  miles 


382  THE   HILLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS. 

through  the  beautiful  broken  country  of  intermingled  forest  and 
lawn,  liill  and  valley  which  surrounded  it.  Around  on  all  sides 
were  dark  forest-clad  mountain  ramparts,  and  above  it  all  the 
aerial  snow  downs,  ti'aversed  continually  with  purple  shadows 
of  flying  summer  clouds. 

Here  they  stayed  and  worked  pleasantly  enough  for  a  long 
while.  There  was  gold  about  in  all  directions,  very  fine,  but 
tolerably  abundant.  They  put  up  troughs  on  a  little  stream  of 
water  and  washed  the  earth ;  it  was  pleasant  cool  work,  by  no 
means  laborious. 

There  were  but  few  incidents.  It  got  to  be  a  habit  with  them 
to  watch  the  snow.  To  Tom  Williams  it  woulddiave  been  snow 
only ;  nay,  less  than  snow,  only  white  hills,  had  he  not  been  with 
Erne.  To  the  last,  I  believe,  his  London  nil  admirari  mind 
hardly  appreciated  the  fact  of  its  really  being  real  cold  snow. 
But  there  were  white  hills,  and  Erne  said  they  were  snow,  and 
showed  him  the  beauty  of  them.  Tom  noticed  that  at  evening, 
when  the  crlarin^  white  had  turned  to  a  blazina;  crimson  which 
Mr.  Sidney  Percy  himself  could  scarcely  paint,  the  light  of  it 
was  reflected  in  Erne's  face,  as  he  sat  in  the  door  of  the  tent, 
and  gave  it  an  artificial  flush.  And  Tom  noticed  too  that,  when 
some  travelling  thunder-storm  would  rise  up,  like  the  eruption  of 
a  volcano,  violet-black,  out  of  Gippsland,  enfold  the  side  of  one 
of  the  snow  downs,  and  begin  tearing  at  it  with  continuous 
snatching  claws  of  lightning,  then  Erne's  face  would  light  up 
once  more,  his  big  eyes  would  stare,  and  his  handsome  mouth 
would  open,  —  only  for  a  time  though,  Tom  was  sorry  to  see. 
"When  the  thunder-storm  had  gone  rattling  away  southward,  or 
when  the  south  wind  had  come  rushing  up  in  his  strength,  and 
after  a  few  feeble  thunder  crackles  had  dissolved  the  whole  terri- 
ble and  dangerous  combination  into  thin  air,  till  only  one  pin- 
nacle of  the  great  ruin  hung  floating  in  the  sky,  disappearing 
while  you  looked  on  it,  —  then  Tom  Williams  noticed  that  the 
old  weary  look  came  back  into  Erne's  face,  and  the  eyelids  would 
lialf  close  over  the  eyes,  and  the  mouth  would  shut  once  more. 

Of  course  Erne  was  not  long  before  he  made  a  confidant  of 
Tom  Williams.  It  might  be  indiscreet ;  but  then  Tom  Williams 
knew  the  whole  business  from  besrinnin^  to  end,  and  had  known 
it  a  long  time  before  Erne  ever  opened  his  mouth.  It  is  very 
quaint,  the  way  "  the  principal  party  "  comes  and  solemnly  tells 
you  in  a  whisper,  with  sus[)icious  glances  at  the  door,  what  one 
heard  a  moiety  of  the  assembled  county  discuss  and  shelve,  at 
the  Pacha's  dinner-table,  a  week  agone  last  Friday.  However, 
Tom  Williams  heard  the  story  all  over  again  very  many  times 
with  the  most  extreme  complacency.  "  Toiijoiirs  perdrix  "  is  no 
motto  for  children  or  sailors,  or  the  majority  of  the  laboring 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  {<83 

class.  "  Let  us  have  '  Little  Red  Ridingliood '  to-night,  Miss 
Piminy,"  or  "  Pitch  us  that  yarn  ahout  the  young  man  as  cut  the 
young  woman's  tliroat  and  buried  her  in  tlie  sa\vi)it,"  is  the  sort 
of  demand  generally  made  on  the  story-teller  of  the  evening  in 
tiie  nursery,  the  forecastle,  or  the  public-house.  New  stories 
require  frequent  repetition  to  give  them  the  stamp  of  authen- 
ticity. And  the  ''child-mind"  is  eminently  Tory,  and  suspicious 
of  all  fiddle-faddle  not  believed  in  by  their  grandmothers,  unless, 
as  in  a  few  instances,  it  runs  into  a  kind  of  rampant  fieudi.-h 
whiggery,  and  asks  questions,  in  which  case  it  must  be  slapped 
and  put  to  bed,  or  the  very  thunders  of  Convocation  themselves 
will  pass  overhead  as  idle  words.  Tom  Williams  was  not  in  the 
least  bored  by  hearing  what  he  had  heard  fifty  times  before.  I 
remember  that,  as  children,  we  used  to  demand  every  night  for 
a  long  period,  at  Dieppe,  the  history  of  the  young  lady  who 
used  to  lose  her  temper  at  dominos. 

Erne  was  passionately  fond  of  shooting,  and  with  a  view  to 
sport  had  brought  up  a  large  store  of  gunpowder.  All  the  week 
they  would  work,  and  on  Sunday  would  be  away  in  the  forest, 
or  round  the  lake,  shooting,*  getting  quantities  of  wild  duck, 
snipe,  quail,  and  plover.  And  so  the  time  passed  away  pleasantly 
enough,  and  they  got  no  richer  and  no  poorer,  and  they  were 
never  much  too  cold  or  much  too  hot ;  and  the  sun  rose  and  set, 
and  northed  in  the  winter,  and  came  south  again  in  summer,  and 
all  things  went  so  smooth  and  easy  that  months  seemed  like 
years,  and  Erne  began  to  feel  as  though  there  were  no  real  world 
beyond  these  snow-d(nvns.  There  had  been  once,  but  there  was 
none  now.  His  reason  told  him  that  all  his  old  friends  were 
alive  and  well ;  yet  in  his  menaory  the  image  of  James  Burton 
was  scarcely  more  distinct  than  that  of  his  father.  Emma  stood 
by  herself  still.  His  intellect  would  have  gone  nearly  to  sleep 
had  it  not  been  for  occasional  fierce  fits  of  furious  jealousy 
against  some  unknown  man  or  another,  who  might  be  in  her 
company  at  Palmerston. 

Nearly  everybody  left  the  place  once,  to  go  to  Eeid's  Creek, 
some  16(J  miles  otf,  where  gold  was  being  found  in  amazing  abun- 
dance. There  were  hardly  a  hundred  people  left,  and  they  had 
such  a  queer,  quiet  time  of  it.  i\Iails  were  few  and  far  between, 
and  newspapers  consequently  irregular.  The  little  colony  was 
thrown  upon  its  own  resources,  and  managed  wonderfully  well. 
Every  one  knew  every  one  else,  and  all  called  one  another  by 
their  Christian  names.  The  ladies  had  their  little  tiffs.  Somes's 
wife  fell  out  with  Homes's  wife  about  Erne's  washing,  for  in- 

*  What  an  extraordinary  fiction  it  is,  that  there  is  no  sporting  in  Australia! 
The  sport  there  is  far  better  than  any  which  was  obtained  by  Mr.  Grautley 
Berkeley  in  America,  if  you  leave  out  his  buflfalo-shooting. 


384  THE   niLLYARS  AND   THE   BURTONS. 

Stance ;  for  after  their  dissolution  of  partnership,  Erne  being 
unable,  like  St.  What's-his-name,  to  divide  his  one  shirt  a  week 
between  them,  tossed  up  a  shilling  and  gave  it  to  Mrs.  Somes; 
whereupon  Mrs.  Homes  accused  her  of  soda,  and  even  their  hus- 
bands did  not  speak  for  a  fortnight.  And  sometimes,  too,  a  couple 
of  dogs  would  fall  out ;  but  the  general  unanimity  was  wonderful. 

This  agreeable  state  of  things  was  rudely  disturbed  by  Tom 
Williams  and  Erne.  They  moved  a  small  granite  boulder  in  the 
channel  of  the  stream  wdiere  they  were  working,  and  found  in 
a  crevice  below  about  three  handfuls  of  black  sand,  out  of  which 
they  washed  a  pound  weight  of  gold.  The  news  reached  Beech- 
worth,  of  course,  in  an  exaggerated  form,  and  the  consequence 
was  that  diggers  came  flocking  over  in  hundreds. 

The  approaches  to  Lake  Omeo  are  of  fearful  difficulty.  The 
men  came  on  foot  or  horseback,  but  the  approach  with  drays  in 
this  burning  summer  time  was  exceedingly  difficult;  the  men 
were  there  before  the  provisions,  and  the  consequence  was  a  dis- 
astrous retreat,  in  which  the  loss  of  life  must  have  been  very 
great.  How  great  it  was  we  shall  never  know,  but  it  must  have 
been  very  great.  A  man  who  came  into  Beechworth  on  Christ- 
mas eve  informed  me  that  he  himself  had  found  eight  young 
men  dead  by  the  Mitta  Mitta. 

Just  as  the  panic  began  Erne  fell  ill.  They  had  no  immediate 
cause  for  alarm  at  first,  having  a  considerable  quantity  of  stores 
by  them ;  but  Erne's  illness  grew  so  obstinate  that  Tom  Wil- 
liams began  to  get  anxious.  He  never  thought  of  himself.  If 
any  one  had  spoken  to  him  about  deserting  Erne,  Tom  would 
have  "  pitched  into  him."  He  was  perfectly  willing  to  stay  there 
and  die  with  Erne,  but  he  was  getting  anxious,  more  for  Erne's 
sake  than  his  own.  What  stranore  tales  one  reads  of  the  devotion 
of  men  towards  one  another  at  such  times  as  these.  Read  the 
history  of  Burke  and  Wills's  expedition.  AVhen  you  read  of 
Wills  (last  and  not  least  of  Devon's  worthies)  dismissing  Burke 
and  King,  lest  they  should  lose  their  lives  in  seeing  him  die, — 
when  you  find  that  Wills  sent  these  two  men  from  him,  and 
chose  a  hideous,  lonely  death,  sooner  than  keep  them  by  him  till 
their  last  hope  of  safety  was  cut  off,  —  then  you  get  into  a  clear 
high  atmosphere  of  tragedy. 

Tom  Williams  stayed  by  Erne,  patient,  gentle,  and  careful  to 
the  last,  —  believing  that  in  doing  so  he  was  cutting  off  his  only 
hope  of  safety.  He  saw  their  provisions  dwindling  day  by  da}^ ; 
he  saw  Erne  getting  weaker  day  by  day;  but  he  sat  on  and  talked 
cheerfully  about  old  times  and  people,  and  he  talked  the  more 
about  them  because  he  began  to  be  fully  persuaded  that  he  should 
never  see  them  again.  Erne's  beautiful  temper  made  it  easier 
for  him  ;  but  to  sit  all  day  in  a  scorching  tent,  as  the  summer  set- 


THE    HILLYARS   AND   TUE   BURTONS.  3«5 

tied  (.lowu  over  the  land  like  a  furnace,  watching  starvation  stalk- 
ing on  toward  you,  —  this  was  a  hard  fate  for  one  who  was  only 
there  by  an  act  of  unselfish  devotion. 

One  afternoon  Tom,  who  had  not  left  Erne  before  that  day, 
went  out  to  talk  to  one  of  the  few  neighbors  who  were  left. 
Their  tents  were  mostly  standing,  and  he  looked  into  one  after 
another.  There  was  nobody  in  any  one  of  them.  The  place 
was  quite  silent.  He  began  to  feel  like  a  child  in  a  dark  room, 
—  he  began  to  feel  the  awful  terror  of  solitude,  the  terror  which 
expresses  itself  by  hurried  glances  over  the  shoulder,  lie  shout- 
ed aloud,  but  the  echo  of  his  voice  came  rattUng  back  to  him  from 
among  the  tree  stems.  There  w^as  no  other  answer,  not  even  the 
bark  of  a  dog.  The  last  of  the  men  had  gone,  and  the  dogs  had 
followed  them ;  and  poor  dying  Erne  and  he  were  left  alone  to- 
getlier  by  the  solitary  lake,  three  thousand  feet  above  the  sea,  and 
one  hundred  and  sixty  miles  from  the  voices  of  their  fellow-men. 

Erne  had  one  priceless  treasure.  He  had  his  "  In  Memoriam." 
And,  although  he  knew  most  of  it  by  heart,  yet  he  loved  to  see 
the  glorious  words  on  the  page,  for  old  fellowship's  sake  ;  for  they 
were  dear  to  him.  One  night  he  fell  asleep  while  he  was  reading 
it,  and,  when  Tom  awoke,  he  saw  that  Erne  was  awake  too,  and 
readinfz;  ajiaiu. 

"  Tom,"  he  said  ;  "  I  dreamt  of  my  mother  last  night." 

Tom  bowed  his  face  in  his  hands. 

''  You  know  what  that  means  ?  " 

Tom  knew  too  well,  but  said  nothing. 

'•J  must  die,  you  see.  There  is  no  doubt  about  it.  Now  you 
must  make  me  one  solemn  promise." 

Tom  promised  him. 

"  You  must  take  the  gun  and  powder  and  shot,  and  try  to  make 
Snake  Valley.     You  must  leave  me." 

Tom  swore  a  great  oath,  which  he  had  no  business  to  do ;  but 
then  he  was  a  low  born,  ignorant  fellow. 

"You  promise,"  said  Erne. 

"  And  I  'm  going  to  break  my  promise.  Let 's  hear  no  more 
about  it.     You  are  insulting  me." 

That  weary  day  passed  on,  and  Erne  seemed  no  worse.  Just 
at  sunset  there  came  towards  the  tent,  a  very  wan,  lean,  wizened 
little  old  man,  all  alone. 

"  Wiiy,  daddy,"  exclaimed  Tom  Williams,  "  We  thought  you 
was  gone  !     Where  have  you  been  this  week  ?  " 

"  I  've  been  down  with  the  old  complaint,  and.  Lord  bless  you, 
I  was  all  alone,  and  near  dying,  for  I  could  'nt  find  my  remedy.* 
And  I  lay  a  week,  and  was  just  giving  up  yesterday  when  I  be- 

*  Probablv  opium  and  catechu. 
17  '  Y 


386  THE  HILLYAKS  AND   THE  BURTONS. 

thought  me  it  might  have  dropped  behind  the  bed.  And,  praise 
God,  there  it  was,  and  I  am  all  right  this  morning,  but  dreadful 
weak.     Where's  the  young  gentleman  ?  " 

"  The  young  gentleman's  down  with  the  same  complaint.  And 
God  help  me,"  said  Tom,  with  the  first  burst  of  tears  he  had  hith- 
erto indulged  in,  "  he  's  dying  ! " 

"  What  have  you  give  him  ?  " 

"  I  have  n't  had  anything  to  give  him.  Nothing 's  any  good 
now." 

The  old  man  made  a  gesture  of  impatience.  "  Cut  away  to 
my  tent,"  he  said,  "  for  your  legs  are  nimbler  than  mine  ;  and  look 
under  the  head  of  my  bed-place,  and  you  will  find  an  old  galvan- 
ized iron  bucket.  And  at  the  top  of  the  bucket  you  will  find  a 
lot  of  Melbourne  Arguses,  and  a  pair  of  gold  scales ;  and  take 
them  out  careful.  And  below  that  you  will  find  a  parcel  done 
up  in  a  Sacramento  paper  ;  you  need  n't  open  that,  there  's  naught 
in  it  but  a  quartz  specimen  and  a  Arrapahoe  scalp,  as  I  give  six 
dollars  for  to  one  of  the  pony  express ;  but  take  it  out  careful. 
And  then  you  '11  come  to  a  old  Bible,  and  leave  that  out,  young 
man,  for  I  want  it  again :  I  mind  of  its  being  uncommon  useful 
twenty-two  year  agone.  And  below  the  Bible  you  '11  find  a  cigar- 
box  ;  and  open  that  and  you  '11  find  a  lock  of  woman's  hair  done 
up  in  a  blue  ribbon,  and  a  lock  of  boy's  hair  done  up  in  brown 
ribbon.  The  woman's  hair  is  black,  and  the  boy's  hair  is  brown, 
though  that  ain't  no  odds  to  you,  by  the  bye.  But  in  that  same 
box  you  will  find  a  paper  parcel,  and  bring  it  here.  The  reason 
I  put  it  there  was  that  I  could  n't  die  without  looking  into%that 
box,  and  so  the  remedy  was  better  there  than  elsewhere.  Bring 
it  here,  but  don't  go  no  deeper  into  that  bucket.  There  's  nothing 
but  a  lot  of  ballads  and  love-letters  below  that." 

How  quaint  that  Australian  life  is,  —  a  life's  history  in  an  old 
iron  bucket !  Not  always,  however,  with  another  life  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  bucket,  as  there  was  in  this  case. 

The  good  old  man,  having  ascertained  that  the  worst  symptoms 
had  not  made  their  appearance,  "  exhibited  "  his  remedy,  and  the 
symptoms  ceased  in  five  hours.  There  were  sufficient  provisions 
left  to  put  Erne  on  his  legs  again,  and  Tom  Williams  one  morn- 
ing found  that  an  angel,  named  Hope,  had  lit  down  out  of  the 
blazing,  brazen  sky,  and  was  standing  before  him  with  sheeny 
wings,  beckoning  westward. 

There  was  something  utterly  unspeakable  in  the  joy  that  this 
young  workhouse-bred  nobleman  felt,  when  he  saw  Erne  take  his 
gun  out  and  shoot  a  wood-duck.  Hope  dawned  upon  him  once  more. 
His  self-sacrifice  had  not  been  in  vain.  Here  in  this  scorching, 
beautiful  paradise  was  death.  Beyond,  lay  sweetheart,  friends, 
and  life.     Only  a  hundred  and  sixty  miles  between  them  and 


THE  HILLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS.  387 

Beccliworth.  Even  if  lie  liiul  to  carry  Erne  on  his  back  tliey 
m}(fht  do  it.  Tliey  had  twelve  pounds  of  flour,  some  tea,  and 
lieaps  of  powder  and  shot.  Oh  for  Reuben  l^urton  now!  or  one 
of  tlie  Sliepherds,  or  one  of  tiie  Iloineses! 

As  they  crossed  the  great  wooded  ridge  which  divided  them 
from  the  watershed  of  tlie  IMitta  ^Nlitta.  they  turned  and  liad  a 
hist  look  at  the  place  where  they  had  suHered  so  much,  and  which 
they  were  never  to  see  again.  Tlie  lake  lay  sleeping  in  the  in- 
exorable heat,  sometimes  dreaming  in  a  fantastic  mirage,  like  a 
niglitmare,  in  which  the  trees  and  mountains  were  horribly  in- 
verted. All  around,  the  great  snow  hills  folded  in  vast  ridges ; 
and  there  was  but  one  living  thing  in  sight.  The  old  man,  a  mere 
speck  in  the  vast  scenery  which  seemed  rolling  in  on  all  sides  in 
towering  white  waves  to  overwhelm  him,  —  he  stood  there,  poor, 
weak,  feeble,  alone ;  with  all  the  powers  of  untamed  Nature 
banded  against  him,  solitary  among  the  dreadful  mountains. 

That  was  the  last  of  Lake  Omeo.  That  scene  photographed 
itself  upon  their  brains  indelibly. 

At  first,  while  the  new  effect  of  effort  and  freedom  was  upon 
them,  they  never  doubted  of  the  result:  they  imagined  them- 
selves saved.  They  shot  parrots  and  cooked  them,  and  fared 
very  well.  But  the  ridges  were  steep  to  climb,  and  Erne  began 
to  flag ;  and,  when  they  got  into  the  magnesian  limestone  coun 
try,  which  lies  on  the  left  bank  of  the  Mitta  Mitta,  the  water, 
drawn  away  underground  into  infinite  crannies  and  clefts  of  the 
rock,  begun  to  fiiil  them ;  and  they  were  forced,  will  they  nill 
they,  to  struggle  down  over  the  cliffs  to  the  river  itself,  and  fight 
with  the  tangled  jungle  on  its  brink  for  very  life's  sake,  sooner 
than  keep  the  high  open  leading  ranges  where  walking  was  so 
much  easier,  and  where  the  blessed  cool  south  wind  from  the  pole 
could  flin  their  foreheads,  and  tell  them  that  the  whole  of  God's 
earth  was  not  like  this  blazing,  beautiful,  cruel  forest  land  through 
which  they  fought  their  way. 

Similar  causes  will  produce  similar  effect>  ;  and  they,  starting 
with  just  the  same  knowledge  or  ignorance  of  the  route  to  Beech- 
worth  as  those  who  had  preceded  them,  found  after  a  little  time 
that  they,  driven  by  the  same  necessities,  had  too  surely  followed 
on  their  track. 

"  The  bodies  and  the  bones  of  those 

That  strove  in  otlier  days  to  pass, 
Are  withered  in  the  thorny  close 

Or  scattered  blanching  on  the  grass. 
He  gazes  on  the  silent  dead " 

Those  w.ho  try  to  prove  that  Shakespeare  was  an  attorney,  had 
better  try  to  prove  that  Mr.  Tennyson  brought  up  the  rear  of  the 
great  Omeo  retreat.  There  is  more  evidence  for  Tennyson  than 
for  Shakespeare. 


388  THE   HILLYARS  AND  THP:  BURTONS. 

One  day  —  who  can  say  which,  out  of  so  many  weary  days? 
—  they  came  upon  the  bodies  of  two  young  men,  brothers,  whom 
they  had  known  on  the  Oraeo,  lying  locked  in  one  another's 
arms,  on  a  shelf  of  limestone  by  the  river.  They  could  not  go 
near  them,  but  they  recognized  them  by  their  clothes.  Erne 
spoke  very  little  after  this,  and  soon  after  went  mad. 

He  was  not  morose  or  troublesome  in  his  madness.  He  got 
first  incoherent  in  his  talk,  and  was  apt  to  astonish  Tom  Williams 
by  tacking  one  sentence  on  to  another  without  the  slightest  no- 
tion of  cause  and  effect.  But  after  this  his  madness  began  to 
get  really  pretty.  He  began  to  be  really  delirious,  —  that  is  to 
say,  he  began  to  dream  without  going  to  sleep,  and  to  tell  his 
dreams  as  fast  as  they  came,  —  a  very  great  advantage ;  for  we 
sane  idiots  forget  half  ours  as  soon  as  we  wake.  In  short,  Erne 
was  talking  his  dreams  as  quick  as  they  appeared,  and,  had  there 
only  been  a  short-hand  writer  present,  we  might  have  had  the 
most  wonderful  results. 

In  spite  of  his  madness,  though,  he  walked  stoutly  onwards. 
The  country  through  which  they  walked  was  one  of  the  richest 
and  most  beautiful  in  the  world,  but  it  was  not  ready  for  human 
habitation.  It  was  still  in  its  cruel,  pitiless  phase.  It  was  only 
in  the  state  of  preparation,  —  a  state  which  it  requires  generally 
a  great  sacrifice  of  human  life  to  alter  into  a  state  of  readiness 
for  what  we  choo.-e  to  call  a  state  of  civilization.  It  was  exceed- 
ingly rich,  and  it  looked  wonderfully  beautiful.  Every  morning, 
great  inexorable  Mother  Nature  looked  over  the  eastern  hill  tops, 
passing  through  phases  of  crimson  glory  into  orange  glory,  until 
she  had  done  her  day's  work,  and  laid  all  the  magnificent  land- 
scape to  sleej),  under  a  haze  of  crystalline  blue.  And  then  she 
would  sleep  herself;  and  say,  dreamily,  "  Children  !  children ! 
here  is  room  for  millions  of  you.  Come."  And  then  in  the 
evening  she  would  wake  up  once  more,  into  new  glories  of 
crim-on  and  purple,  and  once  more  fall  asleep  into  dark  night, 
sighing  sometimes,  in  dry  wandering  winds,  which  rustled  through 
the  grass  upon  the  thirsty  wolds,  "  Children  !  children  !  •  you  have 
come  too  soon,  and  you  must  die." 

The  owner  of  a  solitary  tent,  in  one  of  the  furthest  and  lone- 
liest gullies  at  Snake  Valley,  was  lying  reading  in  bed,  when  he 
was  startled  by  a  shout,  to  which  he  answered  by  another,  and 
an  invitation  to  enter.  In  a  moment  a  young  man  stood  in  the 
doorway,  looking  so  wan  and  so  wild  that  the  man  was  startled, 
and  cried  out,  "  Good  God,  mate,  what 's  the  matter  ?  " 

"  Omeo !  water ! "  was  all  that  Tom  Williams  could  get  out. 
The  man  was  out  of  bed  in  a  moment,  and  instantly  was  making 
towards  the  water-bucket  with  a  pannikin  ;  but,  as  Tom's  wolfish 
eyes  followed  him,  and  saw  where  the  water  was,  he  dashed  past 


THE  IIILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  389 

him,  and,  with  his  head  in  the  bucket,  drank  with  long  drauglits 
like  a  horse. 

After  a  fit  of  giddiness  and  sickness,  he  found  his  voice.  "  My 
mate  is  not  three  hundred  yards  back  on  tlie  track,  and  I  am 
not  sure  that  he  is  dead.     I  carried  him  tlie  last  mile,  and  laid 

liim  down  when  I  saw  your  liglit ;  come,  and "     But  the 

man  wji^  gone,  and,  when  Tom  came  up,  he  found  him  trying  to 
pour  water  between  the  lips  of  the  unfortunate  Erne,  who  lay 
beneath  the  tree  where  Tom  had  left  him,  —  to  all  appearance 
dead. 

Dead  he  was  not,  though,  thanks  to  Tom  Williams.  Some 
may  say  that  death  is  better  than  life,  on  the  terms  on  which 
Erne  enjoyed  it  for  a  long  time  after.  But  life  is  life,  with  all 
its  troubles,  and  death  is  practically  considered  by  all  parties, 
creeds,  and  ages,  to  be  a  change  for  the  worse ;  so  I  suppose 
that,  "  humanly  speaking,"  we  ought  to  congratulate  ourselves  on 
the  fact  that  Erne  Hillyar  was  n't  dead,  and  is  not  dead  yet. 
He  had  only  succeeded  in  utterly  destroying  his  constitution. 


CHAPTER    LXXIII. 

THE  MIDNIGHT   MEETING. 

• 

Three  nights  after  the  earthquake  we  were  in  the  same  place, 
at  the  same  hour.  The  lurid,  still  weather  was  the  same  as  be- 
fore. The  terrible  threatening^  silence  which  hung:  over  the  coun- 
try  remained  the  same.  It  seemed  to  me  on  this  night  as  if  that 
silence  would  only  be  broken  by  the  trump  of  the  resurrection, 
and  I  said  so  to  Trevittick. 

He  took  my  remark  quite  au  grand  serieux,  but  considered  it 
improbable  that  the  day  was  near:  first,  because  we  had  seen  no 
portents,  —  nothing  but  the  earthquake  and  the  heat ;  and  next, 
that  he  thought  it  improbable  that  he  would  be  allowed  to  reform 
Tom  Williams  so  quickly  ;  his  earthly  heart  had  not  been  suffi- 
ciently weaned  from  him. 

We  sat  a  long  time,  sometimes  talking,  sometimes  in  silence, 
until  I  heard  a  distant  sound  in  the  forest,  to  the  south,  and  called 
Trevittick's  attention  to  it.  He  said  :  ••'  I  have  heard  it  a  long 
time.     There  are  two  men  walking,  and  one  is  lame." 

I  had  as  yet  made  out  nothing  more  than  a  rustling  in  the  grass, 
and  every  now  and  then  the  snapping  of  a  stick  ;  but  soon  I  distin- 
guished that  two  persons  wej'e  coming  through  the  wood  towards 
us,  up  hill. 


31)0  THE  HILLYARS   AND   THE  BURTONS. 

Mj  nerves  were  unliinged  a  little  by  what  had  happened  lately, 
a  little  more  so  by  the  time  and  })lace,  and  more  yet  by  the  awful 
weather.  The  moon,  though  of  a  ghastly  red,  shed  light  enough 
to  distinguish  surrounding  objects  distinctly ;  and  I  had  a  nervous 
terror  of  tlie  time  when  the  men  who  approached  should  come  into 
tlie  range  of  sight.  I  had  grown  afraid  of  my  own  shadow.  Tre- 
vittick  might  have  had  strength  of  mind  to  live  in  the  atmosphere 
of  terror  which  he  had  created  for  himself  without  going  mad.  I 
most  certainly  had  not. 

I  listened  with  fear  as  the  footsteps  approached ;  and  suddenly, 
before  those  who  made  them  were  in  sight,  the  whole  forest  echoed 
with  ray  shout.  It  was  no  articulate  sound  I  uttered  ;  it  was  some- 
thing like  Hah !  or  Here !  The  forest  took  up  the  echoes  and 
j^rolonged  them,  and  then  silence  reigned  again.  The  footsteps 
had  ceased. 

"  What  on  earth  did  you  do  that  for  ?  "  said  Trevittick. 

"  You  heard  the  footsteps  before  me,  but  I  knew  the  voice  be- 
fore you.     Did  you  hear  him  ?  " 

"  I  heard  a  man  speak,"  said  Trevittick. 

"  As  I  am  to  be  saved  by  no  merits  of  my  own,"  I  said  eagerly, 
"I  heard  Erne  Hillyar's  voice.  What  fools  we  are.  We  are 
on  the  very  bush-track  by  which  Lady  Hillyar  came  from  Mel- 
bourne. It  must  be  them  ;  it  shall  be  them  ! "  I  cried,  raising  my 
voice.     "  Erne  !  Erne !  it  is  I." 

It  was  them.  There  was  a  feeble  shout  from  below,  and  we 
ran  down.  Before  I  knew  rightly  whether  my  supposition  was 
true  or  false,  I  was  holding  a  taH,  lean,  wan,  wasted  skeleton  of 
a  young  man  in  my  arms,  and  peering  into  his  face.  The  great 
blue-black  eyes  were  luminous  even  in  the  light  of  this  horrid 
Hecate  of  a  moon,  and  the  smile  was  there  still.  Ah  me  !  yes,  it 
was  Erne  in  the  flesh. 

AVhat  Trevittick  did  to  Tom  Williams  I  don't  know.  Punched 
his  head,  possibly,  for  upsetting  by  his  return  a  dozen  or  fourteen 
as  pretty  theories  about  the  future  of  the  departed,  as  Mr.  Emer- 
son and  Copeland  Advocate,  with  Dick  Swiveller  to  help  them, 
could  have  made  up  in  a  summer's  day.  He  has  never  s})oken 
to  me  on  religious  subjects  since.  He  had  laid  his  proud  heart 
too  bare  before  me  during  our  solitary  walks,  when  we  shared  a 
causeless  grief,  ever  to  open  it  again.  But  among  all  that  man's 
wild  feelings  in  the  dark,  among  all  his  honest  stumblings  in  the 
search  of  truth,  one  thing  he  said  remains  with  me  yet,  and  will 
remain  with  me  until  a  light  not  of  this  world  dawns  upon  my 
eyes : — 

"  This  world  is  no  place  of  rewards  and  punishments.  You 
have  seen  one  instance  in  proof  of  it,  and  have  rebelled  against 
that.     Mind  lest  He  send  you  another  and  more  terrible  one." 


.•> 


\ 


TUE  HILLY AES  AND  THE  BURTONg.     ^      ^         391 


CHAPTER   LXXIV. 

THE  SKY  BRIGHTENING. 

When  the  morn  dawned,  I  went  and  looked  at  him  as  he  lay 
asleep.  He  was  a  terrible  ruin.  Try  to  picture  to  yourself 
some  young  round  face  as  it  will  be  when  it  is  old,  and  you  will 
find  it  impossible.  Again  imagine  that  you  have  skipped  forty 
years,  and  met  that  ftice  again.  Would  you  know  it  ?  I  should 
hardly  have  known  Erne. 

We  had  a  very  clever  doctor  in  Romilly,  a  man  so  clever  and 
80  repandu  in  his  profession,  that  I  have  known  him  fetched  by 
steamer  to  Melbourne,  in  what  Miss  Burke  would  call  "  a  hurry," 
to  attend  important  consultations ;  his  expenses  and  a  handsome 
fee  being  promised  him,  and  a  total  immunity  against  action  in 
civil  process  being  guaranteed  him  on  the  honor  of  the  faculty. 
He  had  a  sympathy  with  all  his  patients,  inasmuch  as  he  was  a 
prey  to  a  devouring  disease  himself:  that  which  has  been  so 
oddly  named,  dipsomania,  as  if  an  addiction  to  stimulants  had 
anything  to  do  with  thirst.  This  doctor,  when  sober  (he  used  to 
get  sober  sometimes,  as  a  dissipation,  though  it  played  the  dense 
with  his  nerves),  was  a  feeble  thing,  who  used  to  try  to  dig  in 
his  garden  ;  and  was  always  going  to  give  a  lecture ;  but  when 

d Well,  he  never  was  the  worse  for  liquor,  generally  rather 

the  better,  —  a  perfect  king.  He  had  attained  such  a  dictator- 
ship in  his  profession,  that  his  addiction  to  brandy  was  looked  on 
as  an  amiable  weakness  by  the  most  respectable  people.  As  for 
the  midwives,  they  none  of  them  felt  really  safe  without  Dr. 

C .      It  must  not   be   supposed   that   the  doctor  ever   got 

drunk. 

Mr.  Jeaifreson's  charmingr  "Book  about  Doctors"  is  incom- 
plete.     He  should  add  a  chapter  on  colonial  doctors. 

I  sent  for  tliis  gentleman  to  see  me,  and  waited  with  intense 
impatience  till  he  came  out,  for  the  change  in  Erne  was  so  great 
that  I  had  a  vague  fear  that  he  would  not  live.  The  weary  las- 
situde, the  utter  absence  of  all  energy,  moral  or  physical,  was  so 
great  that  I  thought  it  more  than  probable  that  he  might  fail, 
and  die  after  all. 

So  I  waited  for  the  doctor  with  great  anxiety  ;  and  at  last  he 
came  out.  I  could  gather  nothing  from  his  face,  and  I  knew 
him' too  well  to  suppose  that  I  should  get  anything  out  of  him 


592  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

until  I  had  given  him  his  run.  I  had  to  sit  and  wait  as  patiently 
as  I  could  to  the  latest  instalment  of  gossip.  But  I  got  him 
some  brandy,  hoping  that  would  soften  his  heart,  and  persuade 
him  to  put  me  out  of  my  misery.  If  he  should  die  after  having 
been  restored  to  us.  If  Emma,  after  hearing  of  his  life,  should 
hear  once  more  of  his  death,  I  feared  that  she  would  die  too. 
For  many  reasons  was  I  anxious. 

The  doctor  began.  "  Lady  and  baby  quite  well,  hey  ?  Well 
done.     Now  don't  begin  chaffing  about  Diver's  horse.     Don't." 

I  said  I  would  n't,  and  I  meant  it,  for  I  had  n't  a  notion  what 
he  meant,  saving,  that  Diver's  real  name  was  Morecombe ;  that 
there  had  been  a  sort  of  murrain  among  his  uncles  and  aunts, 
and  that  he  had  gone  home,  exceedingly  drunk,  as  heir  apparent 
to  an  earldom. 

But  the  story  about  Diver's  horse  struck  the  doctor  as  being 
too  good  not  to  be  told,  and  it  is  not  a  bad  story  either,  though  I 
am  not  going  to  tell  it,  as  did  the  doctor.  The  story  of  Diver's 
horse  led  up  to  the  story  of  Dickenson's  aunt,  which  I  shan't  tell 
either,  because  I  have  forgotten  all  about  it,  but  I  remember  it 
to  have  been  tragic ;  and  this  story  led  to  the  story  of  Dicken- 
son's niece,  which  was  funny  ;  and  to  that  of  Horton's  brother, 
which  was  highly  improper.  When  he  had  done  laughing,  I  put 
my  question  to  him  most  earnestly,  and  he  grew  serious  at  once, 
and  answered  me. 

"There  is  great  mischief:  what  we  call  in  our  loose  language, 
*  a  shock  to  the  system.'  There  is  a  nasty  tympanitic  state  of 
the  viscera,  arising  from  starvation,  giving  rise  to  very  distressing 
symptoms,  which  I  can  mend  in  a  fortnight ;  but  I  fear  that  there 
is  a  nervous  disorder  too,  a  want  of  vital  energy,  which  not  all 
the  doctors  —  drunken  or  teetotal  —  in  Australia  could  mend  if 
they  did  their  et  cceteraest,  and  which  I  must  leave  to  you,  and  to 
some  one  else,  I  strongly  suspect.  I  hope  there  will  be  no  fresh 
shock  or  disappointment.  If  you  can,  if  you  love  your  friend, 
prevent  that.  He  won't  die,  I  '11  go  bail  for  it,  but,  —  that  man 
Hillyar  has  scrofula  in  his  family  somewhere." 

I  eagerly  said  that  such  was  not  the  case. 

"  Pish  ! "  said  the  doctor.  "  Don't  tell  me.  Now  the  muscles 
of  his  face  are  relaxed  he  shows  his  teeth  like  a  hare.  I  say. 
Burton,  have  you  looked  at  your  barometer?" 

"  Because  mine  is  drunk." 

To  jret  rid  of  him  I  took  him  to  see  mine  in  the  hall.  When 
he  looked  at  it,  he  exclaimed,  — 

"  By  George,  yours  is  drunk,  too  !  Good-night.  Take  an  old 
man's  advice,  and  don't  whistle  for  the  next  fortnight,  not  even  to 
call  your  dog,  unless  you  want  the  shingles  about  your  ears." 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  393 

It  was  but  little  I  cared  for  barometers  that  night.  I  had  firm 
faitli  in  the  doctor,  (indeed  I  was  right  in  that,)  and  it  seemed  to 
me  that  I  held  Erne's  fate  in  my  hand.  I  sat  with  him  for  half 
an  hour,  and  then  left  him  with  a  new  lii^ht  in  his  eyes ;  for  I 
had  told  him,  in  my  rough  language,  that  Emma  loved  him  as 
dearly  as  ever  ;  that  Joe  was  to  be  married,  and  that  she  con- 
sidered that  another  had  relieved  her  of  her  watch  over  him ; 
and  that,  when  she  had  believed  him  dead,  that  she  had  bitterly 
repented  of  her  treatment  of  him.  vShe  had  said  to  me,  I  told 
him,  in  the  silence  of  the  summer's  night,  — 

"  My  brother,  I  acted  from  vanity.  Don't  raise  your  hand  and 
say  no.  Be  honest,  brother.  At  first,  as  a  child,  I  thought  I  saw 
my  way  to  what  all  true  women  love,  —  a  life  of  self-sacrifice. 
But  when  the  necessity  for  it  was  gone,  as  far  as  regarded  our 
poor  deformed  brother,  the  necessity  still  remained  with  me ;  be- 
cause in  my  vanity  and  obstinacy  I  had  made  it  a  necessity.  I 
had  determined  that  my  life  should  be  sacrificed  as  a  girl ;  and 
when  as  a  woman  I  found  that  sacrifice  unnecessary,  I  felt,  God 
forgive  me,  disappointed.  I  did  not  sin  at  first.  My  sin  only 
began  with  my  ol3Stinacy ;  when  I  began  to  sacrifice  his  future  to 
my  old  dream  of  staying  by  poor  Joe,  and  taking  the  place  of  a 
wife  to  him.  Until  I  saw  that  that  dream  was  nothing  but  a 
dream,  and  that  I  was  unfit  for  the  task  I  had  undertaken,  I  had 
not  sinned.  But  now  I  know  my  sin.  I  have  driven  the  best 
man  I  have  ever  met  to  despair,  and  I  am  reaping  the  fruits  of 
it  by  Joe's  carelessness  of  me.  Oh,  if  he  would  come  back  again, 
brother  !     Oh,  if  he  would  only  come  back  again  !  " 

The  Wainora  was  going  south  the  next  day,  and  I  sat  up  and 
wrote  the  following  letter  :  — 

"  Dearest  Sister,  —  Erne  is  not  dead,  but  has  come  back  to 
us,  broken  in  health,  but  alive. 

"  I  say  nothing  of  a  confidence  between  us  two  the  night  before 
I  was  married.  I  say  nothing  of  that.  I  only  call  your  atten- 
tion to  this  ;  your  old  causes  for  refusing  Erne  were  these,  — 
that  you  must  sacrifice  your  life  to  Joe;  and  that  you  would 
never  drag  Erne  down  to  your  level  by  marrying  him. 

''  Both  these  causes  are  removed.  Joe  is  now  one  of  the  lead- 
ing men  in  the  colony,  and  is  going  to  marry  this  beautiful, 
wealthy  Mrs.  North.  You  are  now  the  great  Burton  heiress, 
and  P2rne,  a  broken  man,  is  lying  in  my  veranda,  looking  south, 
towards  the  sacred  land  in  which  you  live. 

"  Surely,  dear   sister  of  my  heart,  your  life's  work  lies  here 

now.     I  do  not  urge  on  you  the  fact  that  I  know  you  love  him 

as  well  as  ever,  and  that  I  know  no  one  has  stepped  in  between 

you  two.     I  only  say  that  mere  consistency  has  absolved  you 

17* 


394  THE   IIILLYARS  AND   THE  BURTONS. 

from  your  resolution  ;  that  from  a  mere  sense  of  duty  you  ought 
to  hear  him  plead  once  more." 

I  was  on  board  the  Wainora  early  in  the  morning,  with  this 
letter.  The  commander,  Captain  Arkwright,  was  a  great  friend 
of  mine,  and  in  defiance  of  Post-office  regulations,  I  entrusted  it 
as  a  private  parcel  to  liis  hands.  "  Give  it  to  her  yourself,  old 
fellow,"  I  said,  "  and  get  the  answer  from  her.  How  soon  shall 
3^ou  be  back  ?  " 

"  /'//  give  it  to  her,"  he  said,  "  and  I  '11  get  an  answer  from  her. 
"With  regard  to  being  back,  why,  ten  days." 

"  Ten  days,  my  good  sir !  "  I  exclaimed. 

"  Ah !  ten  days,  my  good  sir,"  he  answered.  "  Yes,  and  eleven 
with  the  barometer ;  all  drunk,  —  aneroid,  as  well  as  mercurial. 
I  want  sea  room,  I  do ;  I  shall  run  out  pretty  nigh  to  New  Cale- 
dony,  to  see  the  French  sogers  a-drilling.  If  I  make  this  port 
under  eastern  by  south  next  trip,  with  this  dratted  mercury  sulk- 
ing down,  by  Reid  and  Maury,  I  hope  I  may  be  made  harbor- 
master of  Cape  Coast  Castle." 

He  was  a  good  sailor.  He  was  one  of  those  sailors  one  gets 
to  love  by  watching  them  as  they,  with  steadfast  faces,  hurl  their 
ship  through  that  mad  imbroglio  which  we  on  shore  call  a  "  gale 
of  wind."  But  he  was  wrong  in  this  instance.  He  was  back  un- 
der ten  days,  and  steamed  into  the  bay  on  a  sea  so  glassy  calm, 
that  the  ripple  of  a  shark  could  be  seen  a  mile  off,  and  little  fol- 
lowing waves,  raised  by  his  screw,  lived  nearly  half  an  hour  be- 
fore they  died  away  upon  the  face  of  the  waters. 

But  the  melancholy  landscape,  and  the  luridly  still  weather 
grew  bright,  fresh,  and  pleasant  to  me  as  I  read  her  letter.  There 
was  no  barrier  between  the  two,  whom,  after  my  wife,  I  loved 
best  on  earth.  It  was  all  over  now,  and  a  bright,  hopeful  future 
in  the  distance :  — 

"  Dear  Brother,  —  God  has  been  better  to  me  than  I  de- 
serve. It  shall  be  as  he  and  you  wish.  If  he  holds  to  his  mind, 
let  him  wait  for  me  in  your  veranda.  If  he  is  not  there  I  shall 
know  that  I  have  tried  his  patience  too  long,  and  shall  jDray  that 
he  will  learn  to  forgive  me. 

"  I  will  return  to  you  by  the  Wainora.  I  would  have  come 
this  trip,  but  there  is  sad  trouble  here,  and  I  am  wanted.  It  is 
not  trouble  about  Joe,  or  about  any  one  whom  you  love,  so  do  not 
be  alarmed.  Lady  Hillyar  is  better,  and  I  thought  that  I  was 
free ;  but  it  has  pleased  God  to  find  me  more  work.  If  it  had 
been  work  which  I  could  have  delegated  to  any  one,  even  to  that 
blessed  saint  Miss  Burke,  I  would  have  done  so.  But  it  t^o  hap- 
pens that  no  one  can  do  it  but  myself,  and  the  salvation  of  an  im- 


THE  HILLYARS  AND   TIIK  BURTONS.  395 

mortal  soul  is  too  inijiortant  a  thinix  to  be  trifled  with.  So  T  have 
not  come  this  tri{),  Imt  must  wait  for  tlie  next.  I  cannot  leave 
my  charge  until  1  place  her  in  the  hands  of  my  mother. 

"  May  God  shower  Ilis  clioiccst  hlcssiDgH  on  all  your  heads  ! 
I  hope  Fred  has  not  run  away  from  scliool  again.  If  lie  has,  kiss 
him  for  me,  and  tell  him  he  must  not  be  so  naughty.  Kiss  dear 
father  and  mother  for  me.  And  so,  good-bye,  dear  brother  of 
my  heart ;  when  we  next  meet,  my  face  will  be  so  radiant  with 
unutterable  happiness,  that  you  will  scarcely  know  me.  Good- 
bye." 

The  Wainora  went  south  over  the  great  glassy  sea,  and  we 
began  to  watch  for  her  return.  From  my  veranda  you  could  see 
over  the  forest,  and  over  the  bay  as  far  as  Cape  Pitt,  thirty  miles 
off.  We  sat  down  and  watched  for  the  smoke  of  the  steamer, 
whose  advent  was  to  bring  our  life's  history  to  an  end,  at  least  as 
far  as  concerns  speaking  of  it.  The  laws  of  fiction  show  us  clearly 
and  without  argument,  that  a  man's  life  ceases  at  marriage. 


CHAPTER    LXXV. 

EMMA'S  ANGELIC  MINISTRATIONS. 

The  "  Theatre  Royal "  at  Palmerston  was  a  miserable  and  ef- 
fete squatiocracy  (with  their  wretched  aping  of  the  still  more 
miserable  and  effete  aristocracy  of  the  Old  World,  as  oar  friend 
Mr.  O'Callaghan  chose  to  call  it)  ;  the  "  Opera  House "  is  ar- 
ranged on  strictly  democratic  principles. 

What  the  actors  call  in  their  quaint  self-satisfied  slang,  "  the 
house,"  as  if  the  normal  destination  and  mission  of  bricks  and 
mortar  was  to  form  the  walls  of  a  theatre,  was  entirely  arrano-ed 
for  the  comfort  of  the  great  unwashed.  The  galleries  contained 
more  than  one  half  of  the  audience  ;  and,  whether  the  heavy  father 
gave  his  ble-sing,  the  young  lady,  driven  to  despair  by  the  unprin- 
cipled conduct  of  the  British  officer,  uttered  a  touching  sentiment. 
(Said  British  officer  in  private  life  being  generally  a  gentle  and 
kind  being,  with  stores  of  knowdedge  about  foreign  parts,  which 
he  is  shy  of  imparting  to  you  for  fear  of  boring  you.  ^lostly  hav- 
ing a  hobby,  such  as  ornithology  or  chess.  A  man  who,  if  he  gets 
to  like  you,  is  always  preternaturally  anxious  to  introduce  you  to 
his  mother.)  Whether,  to  resume  the  thread  of  this  most  wonder- 
ful sentence,  the  first  tragedian  made  a  point  and  stopped  short 
and  refused  to   fulfil  his  engagement,  until    the  audience  had 


396  THE  HILLYAES  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

brought  their  grovelling  souls  to  appreciate  the  fact ;  —  whether 
the  villain  of  the  piece,  and  his  more  villanous  creature,  after  dis- 
charging accusatory  sentences  at  one  another,  made  like  pistol 
shot,  suddenly  stalked  across  the  stage  and  changed  places  (and 
that  is  the  deepest  mystery  in  theatrical  ethics) ;  —  whether  the 
first  comedy  said  "  Heigh  ho  "  in  her  lover's  absence  exactly  as 
we  do  in  private  life,  or  her  waiting-maid  was  "  Arch,"  and  took 
up  her  apron  by  the  corners,  when  "  rallied  "  about  her  penchant 
for  the  groom  ;  —  in  short,  whatsoever  of  the  old  time-honored 
balderbash  done  on  the  stage,  was  addressed  to  the  galleries. 

For  the  same  democratic  reasons,  the  large  hall,  which  formed 
the  crushroom  of  the  theatre,  had  been  erected  in  it,  both  on  the 
ground  floor,  and  in  the  galleries  which  run  round  overhead ;  and 
this  vestibule  was  not  only  common  to  the  galleries,  which  were 
filled  with  the  lowest  population  of  the  town,  which  were  the 
dress  of  tlie  offscouriniis  of  Great  Britain  and  Ireland,  but  also 
were  made  by  Messrs.  Pistol  &  Co.,  with  the  dozen  or  fourteen 
gentlewomen  from  Mrs.  Quickly's  old  establishment,  who,  hav- 
ing nothing  to  pay  for  entrance,  and  as  much  to  drink  as  they 
could  get  the  cattle-dealer  and  diggers  to  treat  them  to,  used  the 
hall  as  a  sort  of  winter-garden,  and  did  so  amble  and  giggle,  and 
mince  and  flounce,  and  say  things,  that  the  Haymarket  at  one 
o'clock  in  the  morning  after  the  Derby  was  not  more  hideous  and 
revolting  than  the  hall  of  the  opera  house  at  Palmerston.  There 
is  one  thing  certainly  which  we  of  Great  Britain,  Ireland,  and 
our  offshoots  and  dependencies  do  in  a  manner  with  which  no 
other  nation  can  compete.  We  exhibit  our  vice  and  dissipation 
with  a  loathsome  indecency  which  no  other  group  of  nations  seem 
to  have  rivalled.     It  may  be  for  the  best,  but  it  is  very  nasty. 

A  little  bird  has  told  me  that  Huskisson  Street,  Palmerston, 
and  Bourke  Street,  Melbourne,  have  been  purged  with  a  high 
hand ;  though  it  is  still  impossible  to  walk  down  the  Haymarket, 
—  and  that  the  class  who  have  been  instrumental  in  doing  this 
were  the  class  who  hissed  Lola  Montes  off  the  stage  at  Ballarat,  — 
the  respectable  mechanics  who  wished  to  take  Mrs.  and  Miss 
Mechanic  to  hear  Catherine  Hayes,  without  having  their  ears 
polluted  by  the  abominable  language  of  the  Haymarket  and  New- 
gate combined.  If  this  be  so,  which  I  think  highly  probable,  it 
is  a  fact  for  a  certain  party,  to  which  they  are  welcome.  If 
all  mechanics  were  like  the  Burtons,  three  cheers  for  the  six- 
pounders. 

But  this  arrangement  prevailed  in  the  time'  I  speak  of  both  at 
Palmerston  and  Melbourne.  It  was  difficult  for  any  lady  to  get 
to  her  carriage  without  being  insulted  several  times ;  either  by  a 
dozen  or  fourteen  gentlewomen,  or  by  that  strange  young  cud  in 
knee-breeches  and  Ijoots,  who  carries  a  whip,  but  never  crossed  a 


THE  IIILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  397 

horse  ;  who,  I  fancy,  is  jzcncrally  8omo  t\Yopcnny-hairpcnny  clerk, 
who  gets  himself  up  like  a  fancy  stork-rider  to  give  himself  a 
brisk  flavor.  Consequently,  when  Mrs.  Oxton  and  Emma  Bur- 
ton had  stood  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  at  the  bottom  of  the  stair- 
case which  leads  down  from  the  dress-boxes,  they  began  to  think 
how  they  were  to  get  through  the  disgraceful,  drunken  crowd  be- 
fore them,  and  to  wish  that  JMr.  Oxton  and  Joseph  Burton,  who 
had  promised  to  come  for  them,  had  not  been  detained  so  late  at 
the  houses ;  the  more  particularly  as  they  had  brought  poor,  silly 
Lady  liillyar  out,  for  the  hrst  time,  that  night ;  and  she,  feeling 
tired,  was  insisting  on  sitting  on  the  stairs,  and  playing  draughts 
on  the  squares  of  the  oilcloth  with  the  blossoms  out  of  her  boquet. 

"  What  shall  we  do,  dear  ?  "  said  Mrs.  Oxton  to  Emma. 

Said  Gerty,  who  was  as  eminently  practical  as  Mrs.  Micaw- 
ber,  the  most  so  when  most  cracked,  "  Send  the  box-keeper  to 
tell  them  that  if  they  use  any  more  language,  we  '11  have  the 
triangles  out,  and  give  them  half  a  hundred  apiece." 

P^mma  did  not  know  what  to  do  just  then.  She  was  rather 
glad  of  the  pause,  for  she  had  been  crying,  and  perhaps  was 
quietly  crying  still.  Her  brother  James's  letter,  telling  her  that 
Erne  had  come  back  alive,  had  not  reached  her  yet.  Lady  Hill- 
yar  was  so  much  better,  that  she  had  forgotten  her  crazy  jeal- 
ousy against  her  sister  and  brother-in-law,  and  had  received  them 
with  affectionate  penitence.  So  Emma's  work  was  done  in  that 
quarter,  and  her  old  grief  has  come  on  her  again,  demanding 
some  diversion.  Very  soon  she  found  such  diversion,  and  cried 
no  more ;  but  now  she  was  low  and  tearful,  for  the  play,  and 
what  followed  it,  had  upset  her. 

Catherine  Hayes  had  been  singing  Norma  so  carefully,  so  dili- 
gently, and  with  such  exquisite  feeling,  that  one  forgot  that  there 
were  a  few  notes  of  which  she  was  not  quite  mistress,  high  up 
in  her  glorious  gamut.  The  ill-behaved,  ill-educated  audience 
had  encored  her  until  she  was  weary,  but  she  had  always  come 
back  and  had  done  her  best  for  them,  until  she  was  quite  weary. 
When  it  was  all  over,  they  called  her  before  the  curtain  ;  but 
this  was  not  enough  for  them.  She  was  going  to  Sydney  the 
next  day,  and  from  thence  to  England,  and  a  loud  and  universal 
crv  "fathered  and  jirew  through  the  theatre,  "  Last  night,  Kate ! 
lastnijifht!    A  sonir !  asonir!"- 

In  one  of  the  pauses  of  the  clamor  a  voice  was  heard,  —  "  One 
more  song  for  the  honor  of  Old  England." 

Another  voice,  whicli  few  failed  to  recognize  for  that  of  Mr. 
O'Callaghan,  was  heard  from  pit  to  gallery,  — 

''  It 's  little  music  of  that  kind  that  ye  '11  get  out  of  dirthy  Ould 
England.    One  more  song,  darlin',  for  the  love  of  Ould  Ireland  !  " 

Whether  the  old  music  of  her  native  dialect  was  too  much  for 


398  THE  niLLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

her,  or  whether  she  was  a  little  tete  montee  with  the  long  and 
enthusiastic  applause,  we  cannot  say,  but  she  came  before  the 
curtain,  and  without  the  orchestra,  in  her  dress  as  Norma,  amidst 
a  silence  that  could  be  felt,  she  broke  out  with  the  most  beau- 
tiful, if  I  may  decide,  of  all  Moore's  ballads,  "  The  Last  Rose  of 
Summer." 

Towards  the  close  of  each  verse,  the  godlike  voice  went  sweep- 
ing through  the  airy  fields  of  sound  like  a  lark  upon  the  wing, 
till  it  paused  aloft  in  a  wild  melancholy  minor,  and  then  came 
gently  down  like  the  weary  bird,  dropping,  tired,  sad  with  too 
much  joy,  to  his  nest  amidst  the  corn. 

"  You  might  have  heard  a  pin  drop,"  to  use  an  old  figure  of 
speech.  Not  only  did  she  feel  every  word  of  what  she  was  sing- 
ing, but  the  hand  of  death  was  upon  her,  and  she  not  only  knew 
it  herself,  but  made  her  audience,  wild  and  uneducated  as  they 
were,  understand  that  she  was  to  be  listened  to  now,  not  as 
Norma  in  Italian,  but  as  Catherine  Hayes  in  Irish.  She  was 
gone  before  the  applause  burst  out. 

"  The  wild  swan's  death-note  took  the  soul 
Of  that  waste  place  with  joy." 

And  Emma,  overcome  by  that  strange,  wild  wail,  had  hardly 
recovered  herself  before  she  was,  with  Mrs.  Oxton  and  Lady 
Hillyar,  at  the  bottom  of  the  stairs.  Lady  Hillyar,  playing  chess 
with  flowers,  and  Mrs.  Oxton,  saying,  "  My  dear,  how  ever  shall 
we  get  to  our  carriage  ?  " 

Something  to  do.  For  that  quietly  diligent  soul,  anything  was 
better  than  inaction.  Partly  from  old,  old  habit,  and  partly 
because  she  had  found  lately  that  the  old  habit  of  activity  and 
self-sacrifice  were  the  best  antidote  for  sorrow,  she  had  got  into  the 
way  of  doing  without  hesitation  the  first  thing  that  presented  itself 
to  her  hand.  It  was  only  forcing  her  way  through  a  crowd  of 
drunken  blackguards  just  now,  but  it  led  to  fresh  work,  heavy 
work,  too,  as  we  shall  see. 

"  I  '11  go,  dear  Agnes,"  she  said  to  Mrs.  Oxton ;  "  their  lan- 
guage is  nothing  to  me  ;  I  was  brought  up  among  it.  Sta}--  here 
and  watch  Gerty,  and  I  will  go  and  see  after  the  carriage." 

She  drew  her  opera  cloak  about  her,  drew  herself  up,  set  her 
mouth,  and  launched  herself  on  the  sea  of  low  dissipation  which 
lay  before  her. 

The  presence  of  such  a  proud,  imperial  figure  as  this  black- 
smith's daughter,  protesting- against  these  Cornish  revels,  with  her 
calm,  high-bred,  beautiful  face,  and  with  the  atmosphere  of  purity 
and  goodness,  which  shone  about  her  head  like  the  glory  of  a 
saint,  produced  an  immediate  effect,  —  an  effect  so  great,  that 
had  she  carried  the  flaming  sword  of  an  angel  in  her  hand,  she 


THE  niLLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  399 

could  scarce  have  made  her  way  more  effectually-  The  men  made 
room  for  lier,  and  pulled  tho^e  who  had  not  noticed  her  approach, 
out  of  her  way.  The  prostitutes  who  were  mixed  with  them 
stayed  their  habble  and  were  silent,  as  she  passed  down  the  lane 
which  had  been  opened  for  her.  Some,  with  evil,  lowering  faces, 
scowled  on  her,  as  though  they  would  have  said,  "  You  may  coma 
to  be  the  same  as  us,  my  fine  lady,  some  day,  curse  you."  Some, 
flippant  and  silly,  were  only  silent  because  the  others  were  silent, 
and  wanted  to  resume  their  silly  tattle,  till  she  had  gone  by ;  and 
some,  —  ah,  the  weary  day,  —  felt  the  blood  rush  up  over  their 
w^orn,  hectic  features,  and  said,  "Time  was  when  we  might  have 
been  as  she  is ;  but  the  grave  is  cold,  and  hell  is  beyond  it." 

But  Emma,  passing  among  these  women,  seemed  to  create  an 
atmosphere  of  silence.  She  knew  the  world,  she  knew  how  these 
women  lived,  and  what  they  were,  and  her  heart  was  pitiful  to- 
wards them,  and  sw^elled  until  her  great  eyes  grew  larger  and 
prepared  themselves  for  tears.  But  the  tears  never  came ;  for 
before  her  w^as  a  knot  of  the  Devil's  tying,  which  would  not  untie 
itself  at  her  mere  presence.  An  imbroglio  which  had  raised  the 
passions  of  the  bystanders  from  mere  prurient  frivolity  into  fero- 
cious attention.  There  was  a  crowd  which  would  not  dissolve 
before  her,  and  from  the  centre  of  it  came  the  shrill,  horrible 
sound  of  two  desperate  women  quarrelling. 

She  cauofht  siirht  of  Miss  Bnrke  at  the  other  side  of  the  crowd. 
She  understood  in  an  instant  that  that  most  indefatigable  of  friends 
had  come  back  to  their  assistance,  and  she  waved  her  hand  to  her, 
and  pointed  to  the  staircase  where  were  Aggy  and  Gerty :  the 
next  moment,  by  a  surge  in  the  crowd,  she  was  thrust  near  enough 
to  the  women  who  were  quarrelling  to  see  the  whole  thing.  For 
one  moment  her  heart  sunk  within  her,  and  she  grew  faint,  and 
tried  to  turn ;  but  in  the  next  her  resolution  was  taken,  and  mut- 
tering a  short  prayer  to  herself,  she  began  to  force  her  way  to- 
w^ards  the  two  unfortunate  combatants. 

"  She  may  be  saved  yet.     Oh  God  have  mercy  on  her." 

She  might  well  say  so.  In  a  ring  before  her ;  in  a  ring  of 
faces,  —  stupid,  idle,  brutish,  curious,  cunning,  silly,  lecherous, 
devilish,  stood  Mrs.  Clayton,  once  pretty  Polly  Martin,  once  Mrs. 
Avery ;  and  Mrs.  Quickly,  face  to  face  at  last.  Masks  torn  oif, 
all  concealment  thrown  to  the  wunds,  baring  the  hideousness  of 
their  previous  lives  to  the  ribald  bystander  in  hot,  hissing  words, 
too  horrible  to  be  repeated. 

They  had  assaulted  one  another  it  seemed,  for  poor  Mrs.  Clay- 
ton's bonnet  was  off  her  head,  and  her  still  splendid  hair  was 
gradually  falling  down  loop  by  loop  as  she  shook  her  head  in 
cursing  Mrs.  Quickly.  As  for  Mrs.  Quickly,  not  only  was  her 
bonnet  gone,  but  her  decorous,  gray,  mati'only  front,  an  expensive 


400  .      THE  HILLYAKS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

article,  manufactured  for  her  own  consumption,  also  ;  and  she  stood 
with  her  wicked  old  head  nearly  bare,  and  her  beautiful  long  white 
fingers  opening  and  shutting  like  a  cat's  claws. 

"  Come  on,"  she  cried,  "  you  devil.  I  'm  an  old  woman,  but 
I  'm  good  for  a  scrimmage  with  such  as  you  still.     Come  on." 

"  Hush !  If  you  want  this  sort  of  thing,  go  to  the  Haymar- 
ket  or  Whitechapel  for  yourself.  We  are  going  a  far  different 
road." 

Before  Mrs.  Quickly  had  half  finished  hef  turn  of  evil  words ; 
before  her  wicked  old  tongue  had  half  wearied  itself  with  the  out- 
pourings of  her  wicked  old  heart,  Emma  had  pushed  her  way 
into  the  circle,  had  taken  Mrs.  Clayton  round  the  waist,  and  had 
said,  "  Polly,  dear,  come  home  with  me  "  ;  and  the  wretched  wo- 
man had  fallen  crying  on  Emma's  bosom,  and  let  herself  be  led 
away.  This  was  the  more  easily  accomplished,  as  a  singular 
diversion  had  been  made,  and  the  crowd  had  been  in  serious 
hopes  of  another  row.  Mrs.  Quickly  had  found  herself  suddenly 
confronted  with  Miss  Burke,  who  stood  grand,  majestic,  and 
scornful  before  her,  and  who  said  in  a  sharp,  snarling  voice, 
without  one  trace  of  "  brogue,"  — 

"  Not  another  word,  you  wicked  old  wretch.  That  woman's 
sins  are  known  to  me  and  to  God ;  her  efforts  at  repentance  are 
known  to  me  and  to  God  also.  And  I  and  God  know  also  how 
you  came  between  her  and  salvation.  How  you  wound  yourself 
into  her  house,  held  the  knowledge  of  her  former  life  over  her 
head,  and  drove  her  once  more  into  her  old  habits.  I  think  that 
if  I  were  to  tell  this  crowd  the  truth,  —  how  in  a  drunken  squab- 
ble you  laid  her  whole  past  life  bare  before  her  husband,  not 
because  it  could  do  any  good,  but  out  of  spite,  —  this  crowd,  com- 
posed of  prostitutes  and  loafers,  would  tear  you  to  pieces.  Get 
home,  you  miserable  old  woman,  and  try  to  repent." 

Mrs.  Quickly  undid  her  gown  at  the  throat,  and  gasped  for 
breath ;  then  she  shook  her  hands  to  and  fro  loosely,  as  though 
she  was  playing  the  tambourine ;  clutched  her  hair  wildly, 
drummed  with  her  heels,  bit  her  fingers,  took  a  short  run  witli 
her  arms  over  her  head,  stopped  and  moaned,  took  a  longer  and 
more  frantic  run,  and  hurled  herself  down  in  a  gutter  outside, 
and  then  lay  there  kicking.  An  unappreciative  world  this !  She 
was  fished  out  of  that  gutter  as  a  mere  drunken  woman  by  an  ut- 
terly unsympathetic  constabulary,  who  could  not  be  brought  to 
an  appreciation  of  her  wrongs,  but  took  her  as  a  piece  of  busi- 
ness, —  an  unexpected  oi'der,  troublesome  to  execute  and  unre- 
munerative,  but  coming  into  their  weary  day's  work.  A  most 
bitter  and  hard-hearted  world !  By  the  time  she  had  done  all 
this,  so  well  had  the  retreat  been  covered  by  Miss  Burke,  that 
Emma  had  got  her  unresisting  charge  safe  away,  and  had  very 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  401 

soon  landed  her  in  her  own  Louse.  At  first  Mrs.  Clayton  only 
cast  herself  on  the  ground,  with  her  face  hidden,  moaning ;  but 
after  a  time  her  moans  grew  articulate,  though  monotonous. 
*'Let  me  go  and  make  away  Avith  myself!  Let  me  go  and  make 
away  with  myself!  " 

Emma  knelt  beside  her  on  the  floor,  but  the  poor  woman  only 
shrunk  from  her  touch,  and  went  on  with  the  same  low  wail.  At 
last  Emma  tried  praying,  and  that  quieted  her,  till  by  degrees 
she  let  Emma's  arm  steal  round  her  waist,  and  she  laid  her  burn- 
ing head  upon  Emma's  bosom,  and  began  in  wild  starts  and  with 
long  interruptions  to  tell  her  tale. 

''  She  found  me  out  as  soon  as  I  married  him.  I  thousrht  that 
wlien  I  married,  my  whole  hideous  life  was  a  thing  of  the  past. 
I  did  not  think  how  wickedly  I  was  deceiving  him.  I  thought  it 
was  all  past  and  gone  forever.  I  had  tried  so  hard,  and  had  re- 
pented so  sincerely,  that  I  thought  some  mercy  would  have  been 
shown  me ;  but  when  she  found  me  out  at  the  end  of  the  three 
months,  I  knew  that  I  was  to  be  punished  for  my  deceit,  and  that 
he,  poor  innocent,  —  my  poor  old  Jack ;  my  poor,  kind,  loving, 
innocent,  old  Jack  ;  oh,  my  God !  I  '11  tear  the  hair  out  of  my 
head,  —  that  he  was  to  be  punished  through  me.  And  she 
tempted  me  to  the  drink ;  and  I  was  glad  of  it,  for  I  had  a  hor- 
rible life,  never  knowing  what  she  would  say  or  do.  And  she 
would  sit  opposite  me  half  the  day  with  her  arms  folded,  magging 
and  growling  at  me,  —  at  me  who  was  always  so  kind  to  her,  and 
never  offended  her ;  and  she  would  play  with  my  terror  as  a  cat 
plays  with  a  mouse  ;  and  oh  !  she  is  a  devil !  devil !  devil  1 " 

"  Hush,  dear,  hush  !  " 

"  I  used  to  wish  her  dead,  Emma.  I  used  to  wish  that  I  dared 
murder  her ;  but  I  saw  that  servant-girl  hung  at  Bristol,  and  that 
stopped  me.  I  tried  to  keep  civil  to  her,  but  I  could  not  do  it. 
We  had  many  quarrels,  and  I  knew  how  dangerous  quarrelling 
was,  and  vowed  each  one  should  be  the  last.  But  when  the  drink 
was  in  me  I  used  to  break  out.  And  last  week  we  had  the  finish- 
ing quarrel.  I  broke  out  at  her,  and  called  her  such  dreadful 
things  that  she  sat  white  with  savageness,  and  then  got  up  and 
went  to  the  room  where  he  was.  I  saw  that  she  was  gone  to  tell 
him,  b«t  I  was  too  wild  to  stop  her ;  I  threw  the  worst  word  of 
all  at  her  as  she  went.  And  then  I  saw  him  go  ridino;  across  the 
plain  with  his  head  bowed  down ;  and  then  she  came  back  and 
told  me  that  she  had  told  him,  and  that  he  had  taken  down  the  Tes- 
tament and  had  sworn  that  he  would  never,  never  see  me  again." 

Emma  started  suddenly,  and  clenched  her  hand.  It  would 
have  been  ill  for  Mrs.  Quickly  to  have  seen  the  look  of  withering 
scorn  and  anger  which  flashed  from  her  beautiful  face  as  the  poor 
woman  spoke  that  last  sentence,  but  she  said  not  one  word. 

z 


402  THE  HILLYAKS  AND  THE  BUETONS. 

"  And  so  I  got  my  horse  and  rode  away  here.  And  she  fol- 
lowed me,  and  I  met  her  again  and  did  not  kill  her.  And  she 
got  me  to  go  to  where  you  found  me,  because  she  said  he  was  go- 
ing to  the  play  with  another  woman.  And  once  I  caught  her 
eye,  and  knew  by  her  wicked  leer  that  she  was  lying  to  me  about 
him,  and  then  I  fell  upon  her  and  tried  to  tear  her  treacherous 
old  heart  out." 

"  Hush,  dear,"  said  Emma  once  more.  "  That  woman  got  you 
to  go  to  that  dreadful  place  in  order  to  compromise  your  character 
again"  ;  and  the  poor  woman  grew  quieter  again. 

"  And  I  shall  never,  never  see  him  any  more,"  she  went  on 
moaning  ;  "  and  I  love  him,  love  him  with  the  whole  of  my  rotten 
heart.  And  he  will  shudder  when  he  hears  my  wretched  name. 
And  he  loved  me  once.     Oh,  my  God  ! " 

"  He  loves  you  still,  my  poor  Mary,"  said  Emma.  "  That 
wicked  woman  has  utterly  deceived  you.  Both  Miss  Burke  and 
I  heard  from  him  this  morning,  begging  her,  because  she  is  never 
behind  in  a  good  work,  and  me,  because  I  have  known  you  ever 
since  I  was  a  child,  to  search  you  out,  and  tell  you  that  he  forgives 
you,  all,  everytliing,  and  loves  you  the  same  as  ever.  That  he 
will  cherish  you  through  life,  and  be  in  the  same  grave  with  you 
in  death." 

The  poor  thing  only  turned  over  on  the  ground  again,  and  fell 
to  moaning  once  more.  "  Oh,  I  dare  n't  look  upon  his  face  again. 
I  shall  die  if  he  looks  at  me.  Oh,  let  me  go  and  make  away  with 
myself!  If  you  leave  me  alone,  I  will  go  and  make  away  witli 
myself." 

So  Emma  stayed  with  her ;  and  on  the  third  day,  like  a  great 
illuininating  blaze  of  lightning,  came  her  brother  James's  letter. 
Erne  was  not  dead,  and  loved  her  still. 

She  would  have  gone  to  him  at  once,  but  the  brooding  figure 
before  her  appealed  to  her  too  strongly.  She  had  asked  humbly 
to  be  taken  to  Mrs.  Burton  when  she  was  well  enough  to  move, 
and  prayed  Emma  not  to  leave  her.  She  was  not  safe  alone,  she 
said.  So  that  Emma  waited  for  the  next  voyage  of  the  Wainora^ 
as  we  already  know  from  James  Burton's  story. 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  403 


CHAPTER    LXXVI. 

JAMES   BURTON'S      STORY:    CAPTAIN  ARKWRIGHT   GOES   BACK 

ONCE  MORE. 

80  the  Wainora  went  south  again  over  the  calm  sea,  and  Erne 
and  I  sat  in  the  veranda,  waiting  for  her  return. 

"  In  any  other  quarter  of  the  world,"  said  Captain  Arkwright 
to  nie  in  the  bilHard-room  the  night  before  she  sailed,  "  we  should 
have  had  a  gale  of  wind  after  all  this  brooding  weather,  and  this 
low  mercury.  I  made  sure  of  it  last  trip ;  but  since  you  have 
told  me  of  this  earthquake,  which  you  and  Trevittick  felt  beyond 
the  hill,  I  am  getting  less  cautious.  That  is  what  is  the  matter ; 
that  is  what  is  lowering  the  barometer  so,  and  making  this  God- 
forsaken weatlier.  It  was  just  the  same  at  Pernambuco "  (he 
said  Pernemooker)  "  five  years  ago,  and  at  Valparaiso  "  (he  said 
"Walloparaiser)  "when  I  was  a  boy,  —  the  time  when  I  was  cook's 
mate's  master's  mate  in  that  —  never  you  mind,"  he  went  on,  a 
little  sulkily,  though  I  had  not  spoken,  "  that  ain't  no  odds  to  you. 
You  was  only  a  smith  yourself  once,  you  know.  And  we  must 
all  on  us  have  a  be";inninfj,  of  some  sort  or  another.  Even  dukes 
and  marquises,  as  I  understand,  has  to  serve  their  time  as  earls 
and  barons,  and  learn  their  duty,  before  the  Queen  will  rate  them 
as  A,  B.     By-the-by,  did  your  night-shift  in  the  mine  feel  it?" 

"  They  heard  it  plain  enough,"  I  answered,  "  and  stampeded ; 
but  when  they  came  back,  the  Arndley  were  all  burning,  and 
not  so  much  as  a  haullful  of  dust  had  fallen." 

"  These  Australian  earthquakes  are  very  partial,"  said  Captain 
Arkwright ;  "  but  law  !  you  don't  know  what  may  happen.  Well, 
I  '11  bring  Miss  Burton  back  to  you  as  quick  as  I  can.  I  like 
having  that  woman  on  board  my  ship ;  it  is  as  good  as  fifty 
underwritiniis.  I  'd  o;o  throuiih  Torres  Straits  and  chance  losinf; 
my  insurance,  if  I  had  her  aboard." 

''  She  likes  the  sea.  Skipper,"  I  said ;  "  at  least  she  has  taken 
to  like  it  since  she  sailed  with  you." 

"  AVell,  now,  that 's  true ;  though  I  'm  afraid  you  are  learning 
the  bad  habits  of  the  upper  orders,  gentleman  Jim,  and  mean  a 
compliment." 

"  80  I  did,  Skipper,"  I  retorted.  "  And  if  you  are  going  to 
be  nasty  about  ir,  you  shall  have  it  hot  and  heavy.  I  'd  sooner 
sail  with  you  than  with  any  sailor  I  ever  saw.  For  you  are 
out-and-out  the  best  company,  —  leave  alone  the  best  sailor, — 


404:  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

and  one  of  the  best  fellows  I  ever  knew.     Now,  then.     Come. 
You  've  got  a  deal  by  growling." 

"  Shut  up !  shut  up  !  shut  up  ! "  said  the  Skipper.  "  I  told 
you  you  were  getting  corrupted.  But  I  say,  old  fellow,"  he  con- 
tinued, lowering  his  voice,  "  tell  us,  is  there  anything  between 
her  and  Mr.  Hillyar?" 

"  She  is  going  to  marry  him,  that  is  all,"  I  said  in  a  triumphant 
whisper. 

"  Hoo-ray !  "  said  the  Skipper.  "  I  knew  there  was  some  one, 
from  her  always  staying  so  late  on  deck,  and  watching  the  coast ; 
and  from  her  standing  alone,  an  hour  together,  and  looking  at 
the  engine;  and  from  her  beautiful  talk  to  me  about  the  sea- 
birds,  and  the  islands,  and  such  like ;  but  I  never  knew  who  it 
was.     No  man  is  worthy  of  her,  that 's  one  thing." 

"  He  is,"  I  answered. 

"  I  'm  glad  to  hear  it,"  said  the  Skipper.  "  Lord  bless  you  ! 
I  see  it  all,  and  so  did  my  wife,  the  very  last  trip  she  came  with 
us,  my  wife  being  abroad  with  the  young  uns  for  air.  It  was 
blowing  pretty  high  guns,  sou'-eastern  by  east  off  shore ;  and 
when  we  come  to  the  harbor's  mouth  there  was  Tom  Wyatt, 
with  his  pilot  just  aboard,  beating  in  with  railway  iron,  and  an 
assorted  lot  from  London,  in  that  b — h  of  a  W.  S.  Lindsay's 
Troubadour.  I  don't  want  to  be  vulgar.  I  never  am  vulgar 
before  I  am  three  quarters  tight,  but  she  was,  and  is,  a  canine 
female  which  neither  I  nor  no  other  pilot  in  the  harbor  could 
ever  get  about  without  swearing  at  her  till  the  rigging  frayed 
out  through  the  pitch.  I  don't  want  to  bear  hard  on  W.  S.  Lind- 
say, nor  no  other  man.  But  for  laying  the  Troubadour  to,  in  a 
gale  of  wind,  why,  I  wish  he  'd  do  it  himself.  That  he  is  the 
best  shipbuilder  in  the  world,  I  don't  deny ;  but  why  Providence 
picked  me  out  to  take  that  earliest  experiment  of  his  into  harbor 
the  first  month  of  my  appointment  and  risk  my  certificate,  I  shall 
never  know.  Well,  as  I  was  saying,  Tom,  he  hails  me  to  take 
him  on  board,  and  give  him  a  cast  up  the  harbor,  for  God's  sake. 
And  I,  knowing  what  he  was  so  mad  about,  knowing  that  he 
had  left  his  wife  a  year  ago,  three  months  gone,  slacked  and  sent 
a  boat  for  him ;  for  all  his  'n  were  gone,  in  a  cyclone  off  Ker- 
quebus  Head,  he  having  took  to  sail  by  Maury,  and  having 
made  southing.  And  my  lads  (you  know  the  sort  /  sail  with) 
had  \X\Q  boat  in  before  five  minutes  were  gone,  though  I  did  n't 
half  like  it ;  for  the  whale-boat  that  had  put  his  pilot  on  board, 
had  been  devilish  near  swamped,  and  was  making  rather  bad 
weather  of  it  to  leeward.  However,  he  got  into  our  dingy  some- 
how, and  I  was  thinking  how  the  dense  we  should  get  him  on 
board,  when  your  sister  comes  up  to  me,  with  the  sjDeaking- 
trumpet  in  her  hand,  and  she  says,  — '  Captain  Arkwright,  put 


THE  IIILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  405 

him  out  of  his  misery.  Think  what  it  would  bo  to  you,  if  you 
were  uncertain  whether  those  you  loved  best  on  earth  were  aliv(3 
or  dead.'  And  I  sec  what  she  meant,  thoui^h  1  iiad  intended 
to  wait  till  he  got  on  board.  So  I  takes  the  trumi)et  and  I 
hollers,  '  She  is  all  right,  and  the  kid,  too.'  And  we  seen  him, 
my  wife  and  me  and  your  sister,  bend  down  over  the  thwart 
with  his  face  in  his  hands :  and  then  I  knew  that  your  sister  was 
right.  And  he  came  aboard,  Lord  knows  how,  and  had  a  wash 
and  a  shave,  and  tried  to  eat  his  breakfast,  but  coidd  n't." 

I  recognized  my  sister's  hand  here,  most  entirely,  and  I  told 
him  so,  but  he  went  on  with  his  narrative. 

"  And  when  I  went  to  my  cabin,  my  wife  says  to  me,  '  She  's 
got  it,'  and  I  said,  'Who's  got  it?'  *Emma  Burton,'  she  says. 
And  I  said,  '  What 's  she  got,  —  the  rheumatis  ?  '  And  she  said, 
*  You  need  n't  be  a  fool,  for  you  know  what  I  mean  well  enough. 
She  '5  got  itj  and  all  I  hope  is  that  he  is  worthy  of  her,  that  is 
all,  —  nothing  more.  I  hope  he  may  be  worthy  of  her.  No, 
Jim,  we  knew  there  was  some  one,  but  we  never  knew  who  it 
was.' " 

And  with  such  discourse  we  whiled  away  the  night,  with  that 
curious  and  occasionally  pleasant  disregard  of  night  and  day, 
which  is  only  to  be  found  among  working  sailors  and  young 
ladies,  who  are  dancing  with  a  view  to  matrimony.  I  have  for- 
gotten so  much  of  the  art  of  navigation  as  I  once  knew,  but  I 
have  a  hazy  idea  still,  in  this  year  18G2,  that  the  first  dog-watch 
is  coincident  with  supper-time.  Don't  ask  me  for  any  moral  re- 
flection on  this  point ;  and  as  for  making  fun,  why,  men  have 
made  fun  in  strange  places.  "  C'est  de  froid,"  said  poor  old 
Bailly,  and  Sir  Thomas  More  too.     Oh,  yes,  we  have  precedents. 


CHAPTER    LXXVII. 

THE  CYCLONE. 

On  the  sixth  day  after  the  departure  of  the  steamer,  the  dull, 
close,  brooding  weather  came  to  an  end.  Arkwright  was  wrong. 
It  was  the  dread  pause  before  the  hurricane. 

At  eleven  o'clock  in  the  morning  we  were  standing  together 
at  the  fence  at  the  lower  end  of  my  garden,  looking  across  the 
bay,  when  our  attention  was  attracted  to  a  vivid  green  cloud  ap- 
proaching with  horrible  rapidity  from  over  the  sea ;  and  at  the 
same  time  became  aware  of  a  dull  roar  which  grew  upon  the  ear 


406  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

each  moment.  Before  we  had  at  all  appreciated  the  dread- 
ful disaster  which  had  fallen  upon  the  unfortunate  town,  I  saw 
the  first  house  struck  by  the  wind  fall  crashing  over  after  half  a 
minute's  resistance,  and  an  utter  ruin,  the  shingles  and  weather- 
boards, which  had  composed  it,  flying  before  the  blast  like  chips 
of  cardboard.  Instantly,  or  it  seemed  to  us  instantly,  we  were 
thrown  headlong;  down,  bruised  and  terrified ;  and  the  wind  seiz- 
ing  the  earth,  raised  an  atmosphere. of  flying  stones  and  sand  to 
a  height  of  some  six  feet  from  the  ground,  which  followed  its 
course,  as  it  seemed  to  us,  with  the  rapidity  of  a  projectile,  and 
lacerated  our  hands  and  faces  until  the  blood  ran  from  them. 

I  raised  myself  as  well  as  I  could,  holding  on  by  the  post  of 
the  garden  gate,  and  looked  towards  my  house,  expecting  to  see 
it  in  ruins,  but  close  as  it  was  I  could  not  see  it  for  the  unnatural 
driving  fog  which  was  between  me  and  it.  A  fog  of  stones,  and 
dust,  and  sticks,  and  boughs ;  nay,  even  as  we  found  afterwards, 
of  seaweed,  which  must  have  been  carried  above  a  mile,  and 
fierce  stinging  rain,  which  I  thought  was  from  above,  but  which 
was  only  the  spray  blown  from  the  surface  of  the  ocean,  a  mile 
off.  Through  this  I  forced  my  way  to  the  house,  shouting  for  my 
wife,  expecting  to  find  only  a  heap  of  ruins,  in  which  I  must  dig 
to  recover  the  mutilated  bodies  of  my  dear  ones.  But  it  was 
standing  safe.  Emma's  good  taste  in  persuading  me  to  leave  the 
box-forest  standing  round  it  had  saved  us.  The  windward  trees 
were  blown  in  on  those  inside,  which  were  still  standing,  and 
tangled  with  those  into  a  screen  which  even  the  hurricane  could 
not  penetrate,  and  which  left  my  house  in  comparative  calm  ;  so 
much  so,  that  it  became  the  hospital  of  the  town.  I  cannot  help 
remembering  now,  as  a  noticeable  fact,  that  the  whole  thing  was 
so  strange,  so  beyond  experience,  that  my  wife,  though  deadly 
pale,  and  too  frightened  to  show  her  fright,  had  not  the  least  idea 
of  what  had  happeiied.  When  I  explained  to  her  that  it  was  the 
wind,  she  did  not  understand  me. 

Erne  forced  his  way  into  the  house,  and  we  three  stood 
staring  at  one  another.  I  was  the  first  to  look  out  at  the  door, 
and  the  first  thing  I  saw  was  the  newly-built  wooden  church  dis- 
appearing board  by  board,  shingle  by  shingle,  as  if  with  an  invis- 
ible fire.  The  tiiought  of  my  father  and  mother  came  over  me 
with  a  shock,  and  1  dashed  out  of  the  house,  and  sped  away  to- 
wards their  house,  —  not  two  hundred  yards  away,  —  c'.  wn  the 
wind.  I  was  blown  over  and  bruised  in  an  instant.  Now  I  was 
up,  now  I  was  down  again  ;  now  trying  to  stop  and  see  where  I 
was  going,  and  now  falling  headlong  over  some  heap  of  incon- 
gruous ruin,  already  half-piled  over  with  a  heap  of  fuming  sand. 

This  was  the  house.  These  three  corner  posts,  standing  still 
against  the  wind,  and  that  heap  of  rubbish  lying  to  leeward,  al- 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  407 

ready  burning  fiercely  witli  a  lurid  wlilte  heat,  at  the  edge  where 
it  was  smitten  by  the  wind.  l>ut,  thank  God,  here  they  were, 
t^afe  and  sound ;  my  motlier  crouched  beliind  a  rock,  and  my 
father  bending  over  her;  tlie  dear  old  gentleman  with  liis  coat  off, 
trying  to  shield  her  sacred  head  from  the  furious  tornado. 

We  had  to  wait  for  a  lull  in  the  wind.  Martha  says  I  was 
away  nearly  two  hours,  —  I  should  have  said  ten  minutes. 
How  we  got  back  over  that  two  hundred  yards  I  don't  know, 
more  than  that  my  father  and  I  struggled  on  first,  arm-in-arm, 
dragging  her  behind  us,  with  a  shawl  passed  round  her  waist : 
but  we  got  there  somehow.  Martha,  with  the  child,  the  two 
maids,  and  my  groom,  were  all  standing  close  together  near  the 
door,  silent  and  terrified.  I  saw  that  Erne  was  standing  by  the 
fireplace,  but  I  knew  that  his  thoughts  were  the  same  as  mine, 
so  I  dared  not  look  at  him,  for  fear  of  seeing  my  own  fear  look 
at  me  out  of  his  eyes. 

The  storm  raged  on,  how  long  T  cannot  say,  nor  can  I  say 
whether  we  were  silent  all  the  time,  or  whether  we  talked  in- 
cessantly. But  at  the  end  of  some  period  a  figure  stalked  in 
throu2;h  the  door  and  confronted  us. 

O 

Trevittick,  bareheaded,  bloody,  in  his  shirt  and  trousers  only. 
To  my  London  mind,  so  jealous  of  any  departure  from  my  own 
particular  conventionalism,  Trevittick  always  appeared  more 
than  half  mad.  On  the  present  occasion,  it  occurred  to  my  ex- 
cited brain,  that  if  all  the  devils  which  possessed  the  Gadarene 
swine  had  entered  into  the  most  hoi^eless  lunatic  in  Tyre  or 
Sidon,  that  he  would  have  looked  uncommonly  like  Trevdttick, 
as  he  came  hurling  in  out  of  the  wild  witch  Sabbath  of  tlie 
winds,  which  was  tormenting  the  terrified  earth  without.  And, 
upon  my  word,  I  believe  I  am  right ;  a  Jew  or  a  Cornish  Phce- 
nician  can  look  wonderfully  mad  on  the  slightest  occasion.  But 
I  succumbed  to  Trevittick  after  this.  I  never  accused  him  of 
being  mad  any  more. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  he  said,  in  a  loud  angry  growl. 
"  Four  able-bodied  men  here  in  a  place  of  safety,  among  the 
women,  on  such  a  day  of  wrath  as  this  !  Do  you  know  that  the 
town  is  destroyed  and  on  fire,  and  I  who  have  been  expecting  to 
hear  the  last  trump  sound  every  day  for  I  know  not  how  long, 
come  back  from  my  work  and  find  you  hiding  here.  Cowards, 
come  cp.\" 

We  went  out  at  once  with  him  into  the  gale.  Erne  and  my 
groom  first,  my  father  and  I  followed  with  Trevittick. 

"  Trevittick,"  said  my  father,  "  you  are  in  one  of  your  moods. 
Drop  it  a  bit,  old  chap,  and  answer  me  a  question  or  two.  Will 
this  storm  extend  very  far  ?  " 

"  My  dear  ]SIr.  Burton,"  said  Trevittick,  in  quite  another  tone, 


408  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

"  I  cannot  say  for  another  hour  or  two ;  if  the  wind  shifts  rapid- 
ly, we  may  hope,  according  to  my  theory,  that  the  diameter  of 
the  storm  is  small.  If  it  holds  in  the  same  quarter  long  we  may 
conclude  that  the  diameter  is  greater.  But  it  is  impossible  to  say 
whether  the  wind  is  shifting  yet ;  I  cannot  decide  for  another  two 
hours,  but  I  like  the  look  of  these  lulls,  and  this  sudden  violence, 
I  confess." 

"But,  in  God's  name,  Avhat  do  you  thinJc  of  it  Trevittick?  " 

"  I  don't  like  it  altogether,"  said  Trevittick  ;  "  the  preparation 
was  so  long.  The  same  weather,  and  height  of  mercury  was  re- 
ported from  Palmerston  by  Arkwright.  I  must  tell  the  truth, 
Mr.  Burton,  I  cannot  lie.     It  looks  to  me  like  a  1783  business." 

"  Now,  Trevittick,"  said  my  father,  "  we  are  both  driving  at 
the  same  point.  Speak  the  word  for  me,  —  I  dare  not  speak  it 
myself." 

"The  TTrnWra?" 

"Ah!" 

"  I  hope  she  is  in  the  lee  of  the  Bird  Islands,  —  I  hope  so ;  she 
may  be." 

"  Then  do  you  think  she  has  sailed  ?  "  said  my  father. 

"  She  sailed,"  said  Trevittick,  taking  my  father's  arm,  and  speak- 
ing slowly,  "on  the  11.30  flood  on  Wednesday.  If  she  didn't, 
take  my  shares  and  get  a  new  manager.  Arkwright  was  deceived 
about  the  weather  and  the  mercury,  for  he  told  you  so.  I,  loving 
you  and  yours,  calculated  every  chance,  as  you  see.  I  was  de- 
ceived too,  for  I  got  it  into  my  head  that  the  Lord  was  coming, 
in  clouds  of  glory,  with  all  His  angels  around  Him,  angels  and 
archangels,  and  all  the  company  of  glorified  saints,  with  crowns 
of  gold,  —  stop  me,  stop  me  !  —  the  Wainora  !  " 

"  Ay,  the  Wainora,  old  friend,"  said  my  father,  quietly. 

"  And  the  sea  gave  up  her  dead,"  replied  Trevitticic,  wildly 
throwing  his  hands  over  his  head;  "and  they  cast  down  their 
golden  crowns,  —  hush  !  —  I  '11  be  still  directly.  The  town's  a- 
fii'e,  and  that  has  excited  me ;  I  have  n't  got  your  dull  Saxon 
blood,  you  know.  The  Wainora  ?  —  why  she  may  have  got  to 
the  leeward  of  the  Bird  Islands.  That  is  our  chance.  But  don't 
anticipate.  Keep  Mr.  Hillyar  at  work,  and  work  yourself.  Don't 
think  of  it." 

And,  indeed,  there  was  little  time  to  think ;  for  the  town  was 
a  heap  of  ruins,  which  began  to  blaze  up  more  strongly  as  the 
wind  partially  lulled.  Scarcely  any  house  in  the  great  straggling 
villao^e  had  been  without  a  fire  of  loss  when  the  wind  smote  it, 
and  the  flimsy  wooden  houses,  —  their  materials  dried  to  the  ex- 
treme pitch  of  inflammability,  —  had  been  blown  down  on  these 
tires ;  and  each  domestic  hearth  had  become  a  further  source  of 
horror.     When  we  got  to  the  end  of  the  main  street,  we  saw  lit- 


THE  HILLYARS  AND  TUE  BURTONS.  409 

tie  beside  gray  lieaps  of  ruins,  rapidly  igniting ;  the  smoke  from 
■^liifli  was  being  carried  into  the  dark  storm-tossed  forest  beyond, 
making  its  long  aisles  dim  with  a  low-lying,  driving  mist  of  smoke. 

Erne  rushed  headlong  into  the  thick  of  it,  after  Trevittick. 
His  strentijth  came  back  under  his  wild  excitement,  and  his  ea<jer- 
ness  to  forget  himself.  It  was  not  so  with  either  myself  or  my 
father.  We  worked,  certainly,  always  keeping  close  together,  but 
we  worked  without  much  heart,  in  spite  of  the  horrors  around 
us  :  what  those  horrors  were,  it  is  no  part  of  my  duty  to  describe. 
AMien  the  tale  was  made  up  there  were  forty-six  dead,  of  which 
number  fifteen  had  been  burnt  to  death  while  lying  helpless  un- 
der the  ruins.  Others  who  were  saved,  and  lived,  were  terribly 
scorched  and  maimed.  The  total  number  of  killed  and  wounded 
was  but  little  under  one  hundred. 

It  was  thirty-four  hours  before  the  centre  of  this  dreadful 
cyclone  reached  us.  Within  an  hour  or  two  of  the  beginning  of 
it,  the  forest  had  caught  fire,  and  the  fire  had  gone  roaring  off 
inland ;  so  that  the  first  night,  in  addition  to  our  other  terrors, 
we  had  the  crowning  one  of  a  wall  of  seething  fire  to  the  lee- 
ward, barred  by  the  tall  black  stems  of  the  box  trees ;  a  hill  of 
fire,  in  which  animal  life  could  not  exist.  But  by  the  time  that 
the  centre  had  reached  us,  the  fire  had  passed  away,  and  left  only 
a  ruined,  smouldering  forest  behind  it.  When  the  calm  came, 
the  deadly  stillness  was  only  broken  by  the  crash  of  falling  boughs 
from  the  still  burning  trees,  or  by  the  thundering  fall  of  some 
great  monarch  of  the  forest ;  wdiich  having  withstood  the  wind 
had  at  last  succumbed  to  the  gnawing  flame. 

When  the  calm  came,  I  saw  Erne  for  the  first  time,  for  he  had 
been  in  the  thick  of  it  with  Trevittick.  He  was  wild,  pale,  and 
wan ;  burnt  dreadfully  across  his  face,  which  was  blackened  with 
smoke ;  his  clothes  torn  and  scorched,  with  one  bruised  arm  slung 
up  across  his  breast:  nothing  left  of  the  handsome  old  Erne  but 
the  two  blue  black  eyes,  blazing  brighter  than  ever. '  He  came 
to  me,  just  as  my  father  had  finished  saying  the  prayer,  "  Lord, 
receive  the  soul  of  this  Thy  servant,"  over  Jim  Reilly,  the  horse- 
stealer, who  had  stolen  his  last  steed  and  shut  the  stable-door. 

"  So  this  is  the  end  of  it  all,"  said  Erne.  "  Have  you  been 
down  to  the  bay  ?  Every  ship  is  ashore  or  sunk.  I  agree  with 
Trevittick :  this  is  the  Jbeginning  of  the  end.  Human  life  is  about 
to  become  impossible  on  the  face  of  the  globe.  It  will  not  be 
long  now  before  the  more  visible  portents  will  begin  to  show 
themselves." 

Trevittick  had  done  his  work  pretty  quickly.  He  had  con- 
trived to  put  a  larger  quantity  of  his  own  nonsense  into  Erne's 
head  in  four  and  thirty  hours  than  I  should  have  conceived  pos- 
sible. And  Erne  had  never  lost  that  childishness  which  had 
18 


410  THE  HILLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

been  so  carefully  fostered  by  his  father,  and  the  soil,  for  that  sort 
of  tiling,  was  in  a  good  state.  Erne,  lowered  by  illness,  famine, 
and  hardship ;  maddened  by  the  scene  around  him,  and  the  full 
certainty  that  Emma  must  have  perished,  took  to  Trevittick's 
nonsense  as  a  child  takes  to  its  mother's  milk.  Trevittick's 
theory  that  the  end  of  the  world  had  come,  had  the  effect  of 
making  all  other  things  look  small  and  insignificant,  and  I  be- 
lieve was  partly  the  cause  of  his  not  going  mad. 

If  poor  Erne  looked  wild  and  terrible  in  the  midst  of  the  havoc, 
what  shall  I  say  of  Trevittick  himself,  as  he  came  up  to  us  dur- 
ing the  lull,  asking  for  water  ?  A  zealot,  driven  from  court  to 
court  of  the  burning  temple,  pausing  for  one  more  wild  rush  upon 
the  Roman  spears,  must  have  looked  very  like  him.  His  Jewish 
face,  wearing  that  look  of  determined  strength,  and  yet  of  wild, 
half-subdued  passion,  tvdiich  we  Londoners  know  well,  and  dislike 
to  use  if  we  can  help  it,  was  more  strange  and  awful  than  his  bare 
scorched  bosom,  or  the  blood  which  had  soaked  through  his 
clothes,  and  even  now  trickled  on  the  ground  where  he  stood. 
He  drank  water  eagerly,  and  then  beckoned  me  to  come  aside 
with  him. 

I  expected  to  hear  some  wild  outbreak  of  fanatacism,  some  mad 
nonsense  or  another.  But  no.  He  had  reserved  all  that  sort  of 
thing  for  Erne,  it  seemed,  and  now  talked  the  commonest,  shrewd- 
est sense. 

"  It  will  be  all  over  in  twenty  hours,"  he  said ;  "  we  shall  have 
the  wind  back  from  the  other  quarter  directly.  As  soon  as  you 
can  travel,  get  out  the  horses,  and  take  Erne  south  till  you  meet 
the  mail.  If  the  Wainora  has  sailed,  she  is  wrecked.  If  so,  she 
is  wrecked  somewhere  on  the  coast.  Keep  him  riding  up  and 
down  the  coast,  looking  for  intelligence  of  her,  so  that  if  the 
worst  has  happened,  it  may  come  over  his  mind  by  degrees,  and 
while  he  is  alive,  for  I  don't  like  the  look  of  his  eyes.  Take 
Tom  Williams  with  you,  and " 

Back  through  the  groaning  forest  came  the  return  blast,  crack- 
ing the  half-burnt  trees  into  ruins,  and  bearing  the  smoke  of  the 
burning  forest  before  it  like  a  curtain  of  darkness.  We  spoke 
no  more,  for  this  new  phase  of  the  hurricane  was  more  terrible 
to  look  on  than  any  which  had  preceded  it.  I  saw  the  forest 
light  up  again  into  a  more  lurid  blaze  than  before,  which  ap- 
parently was  bearing  down  straight  upon  us,  and  I  would  have 
run  back  that  I  might  perish  with  my  wife  and  my  child  in  my 
arms.  But  Trevittick's  strong  hand  restrained  me,  and  he 
laughed. 

"  Don't  be  a  coward,"  he  said,  "  there  is  no  danger  now.  Look 
at  this,  man,  if  you  have  manhood ;  you  will  never  see  the  like  in 
fifty  miles.     Look  aloft." 


THE   IIILLYAKS   AND   THE   BURTONS.  411 

T  (lid  so.  Tlie  smoke  was  ('Icailnij  fast,  and  T  saw  overhead, 
to  the  windward,  a  wall  of  iidv-bhiek  eloiul,  from  which  streamed, 
spreading  below  as  they  were  caught  by  the  wind,  four  or  five 
dark  purple  cataracts  of  rain.  Terrible  enough  this;  but  wliy 
were  they  lit  up  with  strange  coruscating  splendors  of  scarlet,  of 
orange,  and  of  violet  ?  That  was  caused  by  the  incessant  leaping 
liglitning  which  followed  the  curtain  of  rain. 

All  night  the  wind  rushed  round  the  house  like  the  sighs  of  a 
dying  giant ;  all  night  the  thunder  snarled,  and  the  lightning 
lea])ed  and  hissed,  till  the  house  was  as  bright  as  day ;  and  I  sat, 
with  the  child  upon  my  knee  and  my  wife  sitting  at  my  feet,  list- 
ening to  the  fierce  deluges  of  rain  which  were  spouting  from  the 
house-eaves. 

Sometime  in  the  night  Martha  took  the  child.  She  had  been 
very  silent  before,  from  fear  or  what  not ;  but  I  noticed  that  the 
rocking  of  the  child  to  and  fro  did  for  her  what  it  seems  to  do  for 
all  mothers,  —  it  loosened  her  tongue. 

She  spoke  to  me,  turning  her  quiet  eyes  to  mine. 

"lam  not  afraid  now,  James." 

"  You  have  been  so  brave  and  so  good." 

"  Have  I  ?  I  am  glad  of  that.  1  was  afraid  I  had  not  been 
doing  my  duty.     Perhaps  it  was  your  mother  kept  me  up." 

Bless  the  little  heroine ;  there  were  a  dozen  maimed  creatures 
in  the  house  now  tended  by  my  father  and  mother ;  who  could 
contradict  her? 

"  James,  dear,  do  you  like  Mr.  Trevittick  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  I  admire  and  respect  him  above  all  men  whom  I  know 
next  my  father.  He  certainly  does  seem  at  times,"  I  continued, 
with  a  thoughtful  and  puzzled  air,  "  to  have  boiled  up  his  Bible, 
Old  Testament  and  New,  Jeremiah  and  Revelations,  into  a  sort 
of  broth  that 's  too  strong  for  my  poor  stomach.  But  he  is  a  very 
noble  person,  old  girl.  Look  at  what  we  know  of  his  life,  and 
look  at  his  work  this  last  two  days.  Yes,  I  admire  and  love 
Trevittick." 

"I  don't,"  she  said  (to  Baby,  of  course). 

"Why  not?" 

"  He  says  such  dreadful  things.  To-day  he  told  fixther  (/heard 
him)  that  the  Wainora  had  in  all  probability  sailed  before  the 
storm  came  on,  and  that  he  had  better  pre[)are  mother  for  what 
had  most  certainly  happened,  lie  said,  '  Burton,  you  will  never 
see  your  daughter  again,  and,  though  I  envy  her,  I  am  deeply 
sorry  for  you.' " 

"  Trevittick  's  a  fool,"  I  said,  impatiently. 

"  I  am  glad  you  think  that,"  said  Martha.  "  Then  you  don't 
believe  in  the  other  dreadful  thing  he  said  ?  " 

"  What  was  that  ?  " 


412  THE   HILLY ARS   AND   THE   BURTONS. 

"  Wliy,  that  the  Day  of  Judgment  was  come,  and  tliat  the  last 
trump  would  sound  as  soon  as  the  wind  changed.  I  am  particu- 
larly glad  that  3'ou  don't  believe  that." 

I  don't  know  what  made  me  ask  her,  "  Why  ?  " 

"  Because  I  am  so  happy,  dear.  If  I  were  to  lose  you  or  Baby 
I  would  n't  mind  so  much,  though  there  is  a  good  deal  to  be 
thought  about,  and  a  good  deal  that  would  be  very  disagreeable 
under  any  circumstances.  My  dear,  one  night  at  Camden  Town, 
when  you  had  kept  me  out  late,  and  I  caught  it,  I  perfectly  well 
remember  wishing  Mrs.  Jackson  in  heaven  and  out  of  the  reach 
of  temptation.  Now  that  does  n't  matter  talking  of  between  us 
two,  but  it  is  not  the  sort  of  thing  you  would  like  to  say  in  public. 
No  ;  I  want  to  have  you  a  few  years  longer.  I  am  glad  you  don't 
believe  what  Trevittick  said." 

I  was  frowning,  deep  in  thought.  Could  he  be  right  ?  Had 
Ark  Wright  been  mad  enough  to  put  to  sea  ?  If  he  had  been  such 
a  fool  as  to  do  so  in  the  face  of  the  sulky  mercury,  I  should  be 
answerable  for  my  sister's  death,  because  I  told  him  of  that  miser- 
able little  earthquake  which  Trevittick  and  I  had  heard  on  the 
mountain.     That  is  the  way  in  which  men  think  in  hurricanes. 

"  But,"  I  heard  my  wife  rambling  on,  "  God  would  never  do 
such  a  thing  as  that,  you  know.  You  may  depend  on  it  that 
Emma  is  safe  enough.  You  need  n't  trouble  your  head  about 
her.     She  will  be  well  cared  for  wherever  she  goes." 

And  then  the  words  of  Trevittick  came  ringing  in  my  ears 
again.  "  This  world  is  not  the  place  ot  punishment  and  reward. 
This  world  is  not  the  place  of  punishment  and  reward."  Was  I 
to  be  driven  mad  by  my  own  wife  and  a  half-lunatic  Cornishman  ? 


CHAPTER    LXXVIII. 

JAMES  BURTON'S  STORY:    NO  ANSWER. 

The  storm  passed  away  towards  the  great  interior ;  towards 
that  great  interior,  cracking  the  stunted  forests,  and  lashing  the 
lovely  lakes  into  sheets  of  foam ;  and  so  died  in  the  desert,  for 
it  never  reached  Junor.  The  brisk  southwest  wind  came  up, 
and  Nature  looked  beautiful  once  more,  as  though  trying,  while 
the  ruin  of  her  Berserk  fit  was  still  lying  around  us,  to  make 
forget  that  she  ever  could  be  cruel. 

It  was  early  on  one  of  these  crystal,  clear  mornings,  which 
one  would  rashly  say  only  existed  in  Australia,  did  one  not  re- 


THE  IIILLYAKS  AND  TIIK  BURTONS.  413 

fleet  that  one  is  abroad  by  dayliglit  tliere,  and  lies  in  bed  till  tlie 
day  is  wanned  here ;  on  a  breezy,  fresh  niornini^,  wlien  the  air 
seems  to  sparkle  like  chani})agne,  that  Erne  and  I  got  on  our 
horses,  and  rode  south  to  meet  tlie  mail. 

I  had,  I  cannot  tell  you  why,  or  how  fully  and  entirely,  per- 
suaded myself  that  Arkwriglit  liad  never  been  such  a  fool  as  to 
put  to  sea.  What  was  better  still,  I  had  persuaded  Erne  so  ;  and 
we  were  both  in  good  spirits.  A  natural  reaction,  after  the 
horrors  of  the  last  three  days  had  set  in,  and  we  rode  swiftly  and 
cheerfully  on,  without  a  simple  misgiving  as  to  the  result  of 
our  journey. 

The  ruins  of  the  storm  were  around  us  in  every  direction,  and 
those  hours  showed  us,  inexperienced  as  we  were,  that  it  had 
been  the  greatest  storm  for  a  hundred  years. 

In  some  places  whole  tracks  of  forest  were  levelled ;  in  others 
the  trees  had  fallen  until  they  had  formed  a  screen  for  the  wind, 
supported  by  unfallen  trees  to  the  leeward ;  but  everywhere  there 
was  nothing  but  ruin  and  desolation.  I  learnt  the  lesson,  that 
in  so  new,  and  so  little  known  a  country,  so  near  the  terrible 
tropics,  great  allowances  should  be  made  for  great  natural  dis- 
turbances. I  thought  of  the  story  of  Jundajai,  on  the  Morum- 
bidgie,  where  the  black  fellows,  on  being  asked  to  show  the 
highest  floodmarks,  pointed  to  the  tops  of  the  tallest  trees.  The 
goverment  surveyor  laughed  at  them,  and  laid  out  the  town.  The 
few  survivors  of  that  disaster  lived  to  tell  how  the  river  rose 
sixty  feet  in  a  single  night. 

So  we  went  southward.  Half  way  to  Pitt,  the  first  important 
town,  we  met  my  youngest  brother,  Fred,  who,  by  some  original 
line  of  thought,  had  arrived  at  the  conclusion,  that  the  hurricane 
had  given  him  an  indefeasible  right  to  run  away  from  school, 
borrow  a  horse,  and  come  northward,  to  see  how  we  were  get- 
tincc  on. 

We  took  him  back  with  us,  and  reached  Pitt  that  night.  Fred's 
report  was  right.  The  destruction  at  Pitt  was  scarcely  less  than 
that  at  Romilly ;  but  the  wind  had  come  on  more  gradually, 
with  deluges  of  rain,  so  there  had  been  no  fire.  Pitt  had  been 
blown  to  ruins  piecemeal,  but  the  destruction  of  Romilhj  had 
been  sudden,  terrible,  and  unexpected.  Erne  pointed  out  this 
"  conceit "  to  me  next  morning,  as  we  rode  southward.  Harry, 
whom  we  had  picked  up  after  depositing  Fred,  riding,  with  us, 
wondered  why  w^e  laughed  so  boisterously  at  so  poor  a  joke. 

It  was  because  a  growing  terror  was  on  us  of  the  news  the 
mail  would  bring;  a  terror  which  neither  of  us  would  allow, 
even  to  himself,  to  exist,  and  which  grew  yet  stronger  as  we  went 
on.  The  boy  Harry,  who  knew  nothing  of  the  state  of  the  case, 
who  was  utterly  unaware  of  our  anxieties,  went  on  prattling  his 


414  THE  niLLYARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

beautiful  nonsense,  and  kept  us  from  thinking.  But  sometimes 
he  woukl  tattle  about  Emma,  of  some  money  he  had  saved  to  buy 
lier  a  birthday  present;  of  a  bowerbird's  nest  which  he  had  kept 
for  her ;  of  a  hymn  he  had  learnt  to  sing  to  her.  Whenever  he 
spoke  of  her  I  raised  my  hand,  till  at  last  the  boy  drew  his  horse 
back,  and  called  to  me. 

I  went  back  to  him.  "  Why  do  you  raise  your  hand  when  I 
speak  of  Emma  ?  "  he  said.     "  Is  she  dead  ?  " 

"  No,  my  boy.  Erne  is  going  to  marry  her ;  and  he  has  been 
ill.  I  don't  know  why.  Talk  of  anything  else ;  don't  talk  of  her 
just  now." 

The  boy  lingered  after  this ;  I  had  made  him  uneasy,  and  he 
talked  no  more. 

We  were  going  through  some  beautiful  low  wooded  ranges,  — 
ranges  which  were  only  a  succession  of  abrupt  rocky  hills  and 
valleys  in  the  forest,  whose  height  and  depth  were  so  small  that 
they  were  magnificent  beneath  the  gigantic  timber.  The  road 
winding  through  and  over  them,  showed  us  a  prospect  of  more 
than  a  few  hundred  yards,  and  going  up  one  of  the  little  valleys, 
more  beautiful  than  most,  for  it  had  been  sheltered  from  the 
storm,  and  the  trees  were  untouched,  and  the  tall  spikes  of 
heather  were  blossoming  fair  and  free ;  here  we  came  on  the 
mail.  It  was  only  a  scarlet  dog-cart,  driven  tandem,  but  it 
seemed  to  be  more  terrible  than  a  loaded  cannon,  about  to  un- 
limber  and  be«2:in  firinsr. 

We  knew  the  truth  in  two  minutes.  The  Wainora  had  sailed, 
just  as  Trevittick  had  said,  on  the  11.30  tide  on  Saturday. 
"  Worse  luck,"  said  my  friend,  the  mail  man,  but  I  interrupted 
him.     I  would  have  it  all  out.     Now  or  never. 

"  Was  my  sister  aboard,  Tom  ?  " 

"Yes,  Miss  Burton  were  aboard,"  said  he,  looking  at  me  for 
one  instant,  and  then  looking  at  his  horses.  "  Oh,  yes,  your  sister 
were  aboard,  Mr.  James.  Likewise  Mrs.  Clayton  along  with  her. 
Miss  Burke,  she  were  n't  on  board,  for  I  see  her  come  back  along 
the  pier,  and  box  a  boy's  ears,  in  front  of  Colton  and  Martin's. 
No  more  were  Mrs,  Huxtable  on  board,  for  she  is  in  bed  with 
twins.  And  Sam  Corry's  wife,  she  were  n't  aboard,  for  I  see  her 
buying  a  umberreller  in  Bass  Street,  arterwards.  But  Miss  Bur- 
ton, yes,  she  were  aboard,  because  I  see  her  standing  between 
Captain  Arkwright  and  Mrs.  Clayton,  as  the  boat  went  down  the 
river,  waving  her  liand,  good-bye,  to  Miss  Burke." 

The  m;m  drove  on,  and  I  turned  to  Harry.  "  Ride  home  and 
tell  him  what  you  have  heard."  The  boy  turned  pale  and  silent 
and  went. 

"  We  had  better  head  for  the  coast.  Erne." 

There  was  no  answer,  but  we  did  so.     In  an  hour  or  less,  rid- 


THE  IIILLYAKS  AND  THE  BURTONS.  415 

ing  down  a  storm-ruiued  glen,  we  came  suddenly  upon  the  broad, 
cruel,  beautiful  sea,  —  blue,  sparkling,  laugliing,  rejoicing  under 
a  swift  southeasterly  breeze,  and  a  bright  summer  sun. 

"We  turned  our  horses'  heads  southward,  along  the  sands 
which  frin<Ted  the  ocean.  I  mean  the  ocean.  How  insiirnificant 
the  shores  of  the  narrow  seas  appear  to  one  who  has  seen,  and 
has  not  had  time  to  forget,  the  broad,  desolate  seaboard  which 
girds  the  ocean.  Its  breadth,  and  the  eternal  thunder  of  the 
ground-swell  of  the  rollers,  which,  in  the  calmest  summer  weather, 
make  human  life  impossible  on  the  margin  of  the  great  volume  of 
water,  point  out  the  difference  between  it  and  the  shores  of  smaller 
seas  at  once.  A  ride  along  the  coast  of  Australia,  with  a  sailor's 
sea  on  the  right,  and  a  houseless  land  to  the  left,  is  something 
which,  once  seen,  is  never  to  be  forgotten. 

I  was  glad  of  the  ceaseless  thunder  of  the  surf,  for  it  prevented 
us  talking ;  but  when  our  way  was  barred  by  a  cape,  and  we  had 
to  turn  inland  to  pass  it,  we  talked  none  the  more.  I  do  not 
know  when  I  first  began  to  despair,  but  I  know  that  I  hardly 
spoke  to  or  looked  at  Erne  the  whole  of  that  weary  day. 

Sometime  in  it,  sometime  in  the  afternoon,  I  pushed  my  horse 
forward,  for  I  saw  a  naked  man  lying  asleep  in  the  sun  high  up 
on  the  sand.  Asleep,  indeed,  —  in  the  last  sleep  of  all,  —  with 
his  face  buried  in  the  sand.  When  I  raised  his  head,  I  remem- 
ber, I  saw  the  mark  of  his  face  taken  off  in  the  moist  sand  be- 
low, as  perfectly  as  could  have  been  done  by  an  artist.  But  he 
was  none  of  the  Wainora's  people ;  for  the  wreck  of  a  little 
coasting  craft  still  lay  about  two  hundred  yards  to  sea,  saved 
from  utter  destruction  by  the  barrier  of  coral  reef  over  which  she 
bad  been  partly  blown.  The  poor  young  fellow  had  stripped 
and  tried  to  swim  ashore,  but  the  rollers  had  drowned  him.  Of 
his  shipmates  we  saw  no  sign.  Their  bodies  had  sunk  with  their 
clothes,  and  had  not  yet  been  cast  up ;  but  while  we  talked  in  a 
low  voice  together  over  him,  there  came  from  the  low  shrub- 
grown  sandhills  shoreward  a  mangy  cur,  a  regular  sailor's  dog, 
who  yelped  round  us  in  the  madness  of  his  joy.  He  had,  I 
suspect,  been  watching  his  master,  like  a  true  blue  British  cur, 
but  had  m^nQ  into  the  scrub  foragino^.  Our  arrival  he  seemed  to 
consider  had  put  matters  on  their  old  footing.  It  was  all  right 
now.  He  bestrided  his  master's  body  and  barked  aloud  with 
joy.  When  we  rode  away,  he,  conceiving  that  we  were  merely 
going  for  assistance,  followed  us  to  give  us  advice,  but  when  we 
had  gone  a  mile  he  stopped.  We  whistled  and  he  came  again, 
WMth  his  head  on  one  side  inquiringly.  When  we  moved  on  he 
lost  confidence  in  our  intentions,  and  went  scudding  back  as  hard 
as  he  could  to  the  corpse.  I  don't  know  what  became  of  him, 
any  more  than  I  know  what  became  of  the  Due  D'Enghien's 


416  THE  HILLY ARS  AND  THE  BURTONS. 

spaniel,  who  lay  in  the  ditch  at  Vincennes  one  memorable 
morning. 

Where  was  the  Wainora  ?  No  answer  from  the  thundering 
surf,  from  the  screaming  sea-birds,  from  the  whispering  wood- 
lands which  fringed  bay  and  cape ;  only  an  answer  in  my  own 
heart  which  grew  weaker  and  more  inexorable  as  time  went  on. 

We  came  to  the  lonely  lighthouse,  which  stood  on  the  main- 
land, behind  the  Bird  Islands,  which  lay  purple  and  quiet  before 
us,  twenty  miles  at  sea.  The  lighthouse-keepers  shook  their 
heads.  Not  only  had  they  seen  nothing  of  her,  but  the  com- 
rades of  the  lighthouse  in  the  furthest  of  the  islands  seaward, 
had  no  report  to  give.  They  would  not  say  the  word,  but  I  saw 
it  in  their  eyes. 

At  Palmerston  we  got  intelligence.  A  ship  had  made  the 
harbor,  by  good  luck,  in  the  midst  of  the  gale.  The  captain 
reported,  that  nigh  a  hundred  miles  to  the  northward,  w^here,  he 
could  not  tell,  only  could  guess,  that  he  had  passed  a  small  screw 
steamer,  with  only  her  foremast  standing,  steaming  in  the  teeth 
of  it,  and  seeming  to  hold  her  own.  The  sea  was  getting  up 
then,  he  said,  and  the  last  he  saw  of  her  she  was  clinging  to  the 
side  of  a  great  wave,  like  a  bat  on  a  wall. 

This  was  all  the  account  of  her  we  got,  and  we  never,  never 
got  any  more.  From  the  wild  shore,  from  the  wilder  sea ;  from 
the  coral  reef  and  sandbank,  from  the  storm-lost  sailor,  or  from 
lonely  shepherd  on  the  forest  lands  above  the  cruel  sea,  no  an- 
swer but  this.  She  had  sailed  out  of  port,  and  she  never  made 
port  again.  A  missing  ship,  with  the  history  of  her  last  agony 
unwritten  forever. 


THE  niLLYAKS  AND  TUE  BURTONS.  417 


CHAPTER    LXXIX. 

CONCLUSION. 

Yes  ;  she  was  drowned,  whelmed  in  the  depths  of  the  cruel 
sea  ;  her  last  work  over.  The  final  ministration  of  all  pursued 
while  the  ship  ceased  to  leap,  and  began  to  settle  down ;  cheer- 
ing the  soul  of  the  wretched  woman  who  was  her  companion,  and 
for  whom  she  was  dying  ;  making,  by  her  own  high  example,  the 
passage  from  this  world  to  the  next  less  terrible  to  her  trembling 
companion. 

At  least,  so  we  may  gain  from  the  tenor  of  her  life  :  of  a  cer- 
tainty we  shall  know  nothing.  Not  so  much  as  a  hen-coop  of 
the  Wctinora  was  ever  picked  up  at  sea  or  on  shore.  Ark- 
wright  and  his  brave  men  shall  lounge  upon  the  quay  no  more, 
forever. 

I  leave  Emma  Burton  to  your  judgment,  and  you  will,  I  think, 
deal  leniently  with  her.  We  must  say  a  few  words  about  the 
other  people  who  have  borne  us  company  so  far,  before  we  take 
leave  of  them. 

Erne  Hillyar,  reserving  for  himself  only  a  younger  brother's 
share  of  the  fortune,  made  over  the  rest  to  Sir  Reuben,  in  order 
that  the  baronetcy  might  be  kept  up  in  a  befitting  manner ;  so 
that  Sir  Reuben  found  himself  suddenly  in  a  very  elevated  posi- 
tion, with  the  means  of  gratifying  every  taste. 

lie  developed  very  soon  into  a  most  terrible  dandy ;  placing 
steadily  before  him  the  object  of  being  the  best  dressed  man  in 
London.  He  never  actually  attained  it,  but  he  got  very  near 
the  top  of  the  tree.  He  was  very  kindly  received  in  society, 
and  very  soon  began  to  get  on.  As  his  father  once  said  to  him, 
"  I  have  seen  many  a  dandy  made  out  of  such  stuflT  as  you.  He 
at  first  patronized  the  ring  and  the  river,  extensively,  but  since 
his  marriage  with  ]Miss  Arkpole,  daughter  of  Sir  Pitclicroft  Ark- 
})ole,  he  has  given  this  up,  and  has  taken  to  fox-hunting  and 
})heasant-shooting.  He  is  most  universally  and  most  deservedly 
popular. 

He  naturally  leads  one  on  to  Samuel  Burton.  Samuel  lives  at 
Palmerston,  and  his  wealth  has  very  much  increased.  He  does 
not  look  a  bit  older  since  we  first  knew  him ;  in  fact,  he  is  not 
what  one  would  call  an  old  man  even  yet,  and  has  probably  many 
years  of  life  before  him.  His  life  has  been  sulhciently  decent, 
and  his  wealth  sufficiently  lai'ge,  to  enable  him  to  enter  in  some 
18*  AA 


418  THE  HILLYARS   AND   THE   BURTONS. 

sort  in  the  ordinary  society  of  the  little  township,  which  may 
possibly  do  him  good.  Nobody  but  Sir  George  ever  knew  of 
the  jewel  robberies,  and  the  stolen  money  seems  to  have  pros- 
pered as  far  as  bringing  excellent  interest  goes.  That  is  all  I 
know  about  Samuel  Burton. 

Those  two  most  excellent  middle-aged  gentlemen,  the  Hon. 
Jack  Daw^son,  and  James  Burton,  are  ahvays  together  at  one  or 
the  other's  house.  They  go  long  journeys  together  on  horse- 
back ;  and  mighty  pleasant  it  is  going  through  a  forest  at  sunset 
to  see  the  two  square  gray  heads,  jogging  on,  side  by  side,  and 
pricking  on  to  receive  their  kindly  salute.  They  are  prospering 
as  they  deserve. 

The  Honorable  James  Burton,  the  simple  good-humored  ex- 
blacksmith,  who  has  told  so  much  of  this  story,  was  over  in  Eng- 
land in  1862,  as  -Commissioner  to  the  International  Exhibition. 
The  other  Gooksland  Commissioner  was  the  Honorable  Joseph 
Burton,  his  brother.  Mrs.  James  Burton,  and  Mrs.  Joseph  Bur- 
ton, were  compared  by  some  people  as  samples  of  Australian 
beauty.  But,  in  fact,  neither  of  them  were  Australian.  Mrs. 
James  Burton  was  a  Wiltshire  girl,  who  had  once  been  a  servant ; 
and  Mrs.  Joseph  was  the  widow  of  Lieutenant  North,  of  the  En- 
gineers. Mrs.  James  w^as  undoubtedly  the  most  beautiful ;  and 
many  people  were  very  much  taken  by  the  extreme  repose  of 
her  manner  ;  but  she  could  not  for  a  moment  compare  with  Mrs. 
Joseph  in  vivacity  and  powers  of  conversation.  They  were  both 
of  them,  however,  in  their  ditferent  ways,  thought  very  nice. 

Mr.  Compton  is  dead,  and  has  left  all  his  money  (£96,000,  by 
the  way)  to  Baby,  Sir  George  Hillyar's  boy,  who  has  been  sent 
over  to  England  by  James  Oxton,  and  is  now  at  Harrow.  This 
leads  us  to  speak  of  the  Dowager  Lady  Ilillyar. 

Some  folks  say  that  she  is  not  quite  so  cracked  as  she  was,  but 
some,  on  the  other  hand,  say  that  she  is  worse  than  ever.  Que 
voulez-vous  ?  One  thing  we  know  about  her  which  seems  worth 
mentioning. 

When  she  heard  of  Sir  George's  death,  she  secluded  herself, 
and  they  feared  the  worst  consequences.  But  after  a  short  time 
her  grief  grew  tranquil,  and  then  they  discovered  that  death  had 
removed  the  cloud  which  sin  had  brought  between  George  and 
Gerty ;  and  that  she  loved  him  with  the  same  passionate  devo- 
tion as  ever.  She  is  much  alone  now,  and  her  voice  is  less  gay. 
Sometimes  a  solitary  shepherd,  far  in  the  aisles  of  the  dark  forest, 
will  be  startled,  by  seeing  a  figure  in  black  pass  slowly  across  the 
farther  end  of  some  long  drawn  glade,  and  disappear  into  the 
boscage  once  more ;  and  then  he  will  say  to  himself,  "  the  mad 
Lady  Hillyar."  Or  the  native,  crouched  by  the  lake  in  the  cra- 
ter, waiting  for  the  wildfowl,  by  the  lonely  shoreless  lake  unfolded 


TIIK   IIILLYARS   AND   TITE   BURTONS.  419 

in  tlie  steep  treele.-ss  clowns,  w(iul<l  wntcli  with  eager  curiosity  the 
black  figure,  the  only  dark  tiling  in  the  blazing  landscape,  whicli 
slowly  crossed  a  segment  of  the  sniniy  slope,  topped  the  hill  and 
was  gone.  But  whenever  her  wandering  teet  brought  her  home  ; 
and  where  was  her  home  but  with  James  Oxton  ?  whenever  she 
came  into  the  room  where  he  sat,  his  wife  would  notice  that  a 
shade  would  cross  his  face,  as  though  he  said  to  himself,  "  It  was 
I  did  this." 

Erne  turned  his  back  on  a  country  which  had  become  hateful 
to  him ;  and  comina;  to  En2;land,  manaixed  to  get  a  commission  in 
the  army  (he  was  but  just  of  age),  aud  disappeared  into  the  war- 
cloud  iu  the  East. 

There  is  one  more  figure  I  should  like  to  see  before  I  close  and 
part  from  the  reader.  Ah  !  here.  Who  is  this  tall  woman  stand- 
ing so  steady  and  so  firm,  on  the  very  summit  of  this  breezy  cape  ? 
She  has  dismounted  from  her  horse,  and  is  quite  alone ;  the  bri- 
dle is  over  her  left  arm,  and  with  that  hand  she  has  gathered  up 
the  loose  folds  of  her  ridino;-habit,  which  fits  her  magnificent  fisr- 
ure  so  nobly,  but  with  her  right  hand,  with  the  hand  which  holds 
her  whip,  she  is  shading  her  eyes,  for  she  is  gazing  steadily  sea- 
ward. Why  loiter  here,  Lesbia  Burke,  idly  dreaming  ?  That 
happened  five  years  ago,  and  can  the  sea  give  up  its  dead.  Sooner 
shall  one  of  those  purple  islands  at  which  you  are  gazing  break 
from  its  moorings  and  ground  in  the  surges  wdiich  are  thundering 
three  hundred  feet  below,  than  shall  the  dead  come  back.  But 
good-bye,  Lesbia  Burke,  a  hundred  times  good-bye. 


THE  END. 


Cambridge  :  Stereotj'ptid  and  Printed  by  Welch,  Bigelow,  &  Co. 


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